Sunday Scribblings Post-Prompt "Spark"
Spark
Sparks filter through our lives constantly. Sparks of love land on us at the most unexpected times, igniting themselves into connections and relationships that we never would have thought possible. It makes me want to go back to my younger self and tell her that it's okay, she doesn't have to worry. He's out there and you're going to connect. You don't have to do anything but listen to your own instincts and be the person that you are. Fate and the Universe will do the rest. It's a scary leap of faith to take, but, ultimately wholly worth it.
Sparks of conversation soar into the air and become ideas, carried through the currents of time and the world. They sometimes catch on other people and become more conversations. Some of those sparks warm and comfort, some of them sear and scar. I try to have more of the ones that warm and comfort, because I don't want the mark that I leave behind me to be a scar.
Sparks of inspiration glow in the oddest places. He has come to understand that my collection of movies and books and music, the digital notebooks, the bulletin boards, the pictures and the scattered fragments of story clustered in tickler files or spread across the table, tucked into the book I'm reading now, my journals, my checkbook, my purse those aren't a mess. They aren't me being wholly disorganized. These are my conflagration. They are my fire, my spirit, the rise of my imagination as it takes in those sparks to make something more, something that I think is beautiful. It becomes something that I needed to create.
Sparks of creativity arise from all of the other sparks swirling around me. Even the ones that scar spur me on to make something else, to prove that wounds heal, that they can be overcome, and that they can be transformed. Some of those sparks will be misfires, experiments best left to dim slowly into the darkness. Some will grow brighter, becoming embers, growing into fires and spreading into something bigger, maybe even more than I could have anticipated. Some of them come from external sources, love, conversation, inspiration. Some of them come from inside me, from some deep well that I manage to tap once in a while that allows the creativity to flow forth. What happens then, when those sparks conspire, is pure magic, plain and simple, and I am caught up in them. When I allow them to do what they will, then I feel free.
Sparks filter through our lives constantly. Sparks of love land on us at the most unexpected times, igniting themselves into connections and relationships that we never would have thought possible. It makes me want to go back to my younger self and tell her that it's okay, she doesn't have to worry. He's out there and you're going to connect. You don't have to do anything but listen to your own instincts and be the person that you are. Fate and the Universe will do the rest. It's a scary leap of faith to take, but, ultimately wholly worth it.
Sparks of conversation soar into the air and become ideas, carried through the currents of time and the world. They sometimes catch on other people and become more conversations. Some of those sparks warm and comfort, some of them sear and scar. I try to have more of the ones that warm and comfort, because I don't want the mark that I leave behind me to be a scar.
Sparks of inspiration glow in the oddest places. He has come to understand that my collection of movies and books and music, the digital notebooks, the bulletin boards, the pictures and the scattered fragments of story clustered in tickler files or spread across the table, tucked into the book I'm reading now, my journals, my checkbook, my purse those aren't a mess. They aren't me being wholly disorganized. These are my conflagration. They are my fire, my spirit, the rise of my imagination as it takes in those sparks to make something more, something that I think is beautiful. It becomes something that I needed to create.
Sparks of creativity arise from all of the other sparks swirling around me. Even the ones that scar spur me on to make something else, to prove that wounds heal, that they can be overcome, and that they can be transformed. Some of those sparks will be misfires, experiments best left to dim slowly into the darkness. Some will grow brighter, becoming embers, growing into fires and spreading into something bigger, maybe even more than I could have anticipated. Some of them come from external sources, love, conversation, inspiration. Some of them come from inside me, from some deep well that I manage to tap once in a while that allows the creativity to flow forth. What happens then, when those sparks conspire, is pure magic, plain and simple, and I am caught up in them. When I allow them to do what they will, then I feel free.