Reflections on Creativity and Existence

By Abhibandu Kafle

I admit it today.

I accept – the scarcity of my creativity. I accept – the limitations of my imagination. I accept – the triviality of my words, drowned in verbosity. I accept – only the efforts to polish the metallic simplicity of creation, ensnared in the grime of muddled thoughts.

Because Picasso wasn’t born in a night. Devkota transitioned from a beggar to a minister before he stepped into poignant creation. The schoolrooms Leonardo da Vinci left behind aided his ship designs. The world wasn’t built in seven days. It takes 365 days for the Earth to reach the same spot, as history repeats itself. Progress isn’t linear – I accept that.

The sweet verse written yesterday, today’s bland haiku. Why do these people forcibly impose continuous pressure on oneself? I am not embarrassed to be worse today than yesterday – and nor am I writing these letters. Each day, as I plant the flowers of new creation, why can’t I be content in the glow of the setting sun when I don’t? Why must a new seed be planted every day?

I wish to be a medium, a tool – the responsibility of the ultimate soul’s aspiration. I will write then – when existence wishes to express itself through me. I don’t wish to be selfish, the roundabout personal emotions make no sense. Surely, there’s a place in the vast universe for a droplet, but what’s the meaning of thoughts bound within four walls and the creations they export?

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