Spurt

Sometimes, a lot of the time actually, my brain just makes up sentences of its own accord for no apparent reason.

Picture credit to friend & awesome artist Christine L.

            As temperamental as the play of light over a cathedral door, always in a state of fluctuating beauty against the tests of age and time. Separate pieces, but inherently pieces of a whole. A masterpiece in the making. Sweet one moment, playful the next, as if changing with the shifting sound waves in the air around, creating its product in reaction to its own product.

            That was the music he brought her. That was the melody she heard in her head as she scrambled for inspiration. Nothing could be better for spawning spontaneous creativity than spontaneous creativity. Every shift in the notes led her mind down a new direction, and the possibilities were endless. She can write forever, as long as there was enough song to match the gliding of her pen across paper, a dance in tandem, for the sole purpose of creation. This is where art is born, from the calloused fingertips of the passionate.

            A cascade of notes, like a shower of rain, or an early spring breeze through silver wind chimes. Music that swells from someplace far away, a place where laughs are made to add years to people’s lives, where skies are forever blue and birds in tropical colours shatter monotony with the charms of their rainbow songs. Art made between stone walls and stress lined papers, in the heart of a bustling yet troubled city. Focal point. Vantage point. Starting point, for a new study to a new Renaissance. How fitting, on this eve of Easter.