Creative Surge.

Lately I've been in a bit of a random place, probably not as communicative with people. Very much been doing lots of creative work at all hours. Something that's not easy to turn off when it is on. Aside from animal care duties, that obviously must be done. Here's something I wrote about some of this mode I've been in of late:

CREATIVE SURGE

I’ve been living like a struck match—burning hot, fast, and stubborn. Ideas pulse through me like static in a storm, buzzing just beneath the skin. I wake up already sprinting, and the day folds in on itself before I can catch it by the seams. There aren’t enough hours. Not enough hands. Not enough me.

I know I’ve been distant. Out of range, like a signal lost in the woods. Conversations bounce off me like weak Wi-Fi—delayed, jittery, not quite landing. I’m here, but not really here. I’m in some other channel, all bandwidth diverted.

It’s not personal. It’s elemental. Creativity isn’t trickling—it’s flooding. I don’t even know what I am anymore. A lake feeding tributaries? A waterfall mid-plunge? A river in flood season, snapping tree roots and sweeping away the calm? Maybe I’m a forgotten spring, unearthed again, and every dive into me reveals new depths. Cold, dark, startling. Alive. Especially after midnight where nothing hums at me. The force loops uninterrupted for hours and I am disdainful of forcing myself to rest.

And while all that rushes beneath, my surface self? Robotic. Glitchy. Like one of those old virtual assistants—polite, responsive, but only barely. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your question.” “Please try again later.” Stock phrases, canned smiles. There’s too much happening behind the curtain to manage what’s out front.

It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that right now, I’m the wire sparking with current—not the hand that reaches out to touch it.