Creativity told me to write this.  All along I thought it was will, commitment.

Creativity is an oppressive beast.  She descends on me and imposes. 
Tired?  She could care less about my condition.

She lands amid chaos, usually.  When my head is spinning.  When anxiety is whirling about.  When it’s inopportune.  There she is. 
Here she is.

A head full of thoughts screaming for a vocal visa. 
Any one of them could be chosen.  Who will she pick? 
She ignores the selection drama:  the audience?  The purpose?  To her, those are irrelevant. 

She just wants me to do.  Whipping me into action. 
“Sadistic bitch.  Enough already! 
I will.  I will. I will.”

Exposed.  Naked.  Raw.  There.  Alone. 
For all to see. 
Me. 
I did this. I am this. This is…

Loud echoes:  Laughter. 
Or is it humiliation?  
Or that little voice that begged me to procrastinate, to perfect. 
To not do. 

But I did.  And now I’m done.

--Xavier  Cortada