The One Thing of Passion

3:00 AM.

In this deep night of Easter morning, words hardly come to me. My mind swirls with the feverish mists of this cold. Between my spasm of coughs, I understand that I search for something, something tangible in the fog of my mind.

Logical creativity eludes me. I cannot see the paths my words wish to dictate. It travels spontaneously. Murky, dim fog gives way to moments of fleeting enlightenment. It flashes, then, just before I grasp it, it disappears back into the gloom. I am left with merely tendrils of smoke and hallucinations of its existence.

This form of creation is wholly new to me. I, rooted deeply in logic, analysis, and synthesis, cannot but feel a mix of fear and excitement as I anticipate what my searching will yield. Perhaps, in this state of my mind, the barriers to true creative genius can be breached and new territories can be mapped. Or, perhaps breaching these walls only allows for the whole coherent logic that readers depend upon to collapse, becoming a pile of word rubble and debris.

I am only certain of the existence of a vague, undefinable feeling. It rushes and bubbles, like a stream. It leads to a deep introspective search.

I had nearly given up on my pursuit of a creative, sustainable, entertainment medium. And, by medium, I mean words, particularly the flow, connection and conveyance of them. Yet, this feverish, sickly state of mine produced an irrevocable recognition of a passion within me. It will not die. I yearn and hunger.

This undefinable feeling can only be termed "passion". While browsing other works of genius, I have found a cry to try and create something similar, though altogether my own. I want to create something that not only entertains my fellow readers, but transcends me to a state of joy and happiness every time I do. Something that I can marvel at, be surprised by, and be humble about. Its existence wholly accidental but miraculous, only brought forth by my inexpert hands and chaotic mind but hailed and exalted by not only its creator but its readers as well.

This is my wish. My goal. My passion.

I pen it here so that I cannot feign ignorance of it. It has been written, black ink on white parchment. Sacred, since the dawn of language.