I sometimes wish there was a way to manifest the flow of my creativity as a physical object. A tap that I could turn on or off when needed, when convenient.

As of late, I find myself inevitably seeking creative inspiration and finding none. And strangely enough, I have absolutely no excuse for this absence. I've found balance, a purposeful job, room to breathe financially. The sky is the limit and yet I gaze at this white hallway of doors, waiting for a door to open and the colorful burst of creativity to pour out.

There is no rhyme or reason to creativity. Any artist, musician, writer, poet, thinker, chef, or businessman knows this. Creativity, by definition, is not purposeful. It is innate. An uncanny ability to be suddenly inspired, so much so that the only response is to manifest it in some physical form.

So now I'm sitting here, waiting for one of those doors to open.