We all have a spark inside us that makes our eyes shine bright and our chests rise and fall with unspoken passions. Some, more so than other, that part is true, or at least insofar as some accept it into their selves more than others. Mayhaps we simply resonate better with some otherworldly pulse that drives through us all like a stray arrow of Eros, making us love not another soul but everything they are made of, not an object but the sight of it. Some may have a stronger shell, a tougher skin which cannot be penetrated by such a brutal act - for true creation in its purest form is an act of ripping something from your very self and gifting it, fresh and new and bloody still, to the world and those around you. Adding yourself back into the stream of consciousness so another person may, somehow, stumble upon that piece of you ripped in the agony of creation and thus bring forth joy and sorrow into their own hearts so that they, too, can create.
And perhaps that is why creation is so strongly linked to consumption, to coping mechanisms. Perhaps the writer who brings one to many cups to their lips, who commutes with Bacchus more often than not, perhaps what they are trying to do is still the pulsing place within them from which they chip away and rip apart their life work. Perhaps they try to numb the pain and in the numbness they find not release but sorrow at being apart from their inner fire, blocked from it by man-made things. Perhaps it is that fire which burns so bright in them that leads to their wasteful end, cut short from lacking enough of themselves left to operate.
But, of course, this is supposition and assumption. Perhaps, again, that no such thing as creation exists. Perhaps we do indeed simply resonate, take into ourselves some note played by the universe at its own moment of resonation. Perhaps we capture it as it goes through is and bounce it back and forth within that place of ourselves that makes us us, drive it through our own experience and send it flying out, refracted by our identity so it is no longer shapeless and voiceless but expressing power and feeling shaped like our selves, sounding like our voices.
What is a voice? What makes it unique when it is made up of thousands of memories, of fragments of others given to us or taken by force in our everyday struggles. What is a voice then, but the reflection of others through our selves?
What is creation but the reflection of ourselves upon the world?