It was Monday morning, not as usual. This Monday had never come before.
She sat with her hands around a warm mug.
It wasn’t cold. The light hadn’t broken yet.
The house was quiet. Or maybe, just that there was no sound.
The page stared back, blank and honest.
She didn’t flinch. She waited. She had learnt to.
She wrote a line. It didn’t sing. She left it, as it is.
Then another. Another word. A timid thought.
Some breaths that looked like trailed dots.
None of them perfect, but they were there.
The tea cooled. The sky turned pale, like the edges of her fingers.
The pressure showed. And yet
Still, she wrote.
Creativity wasn’t magic. It wasn’t cute always.
It was showing up when nothing came easy.
It was letting the truth speak even when it stumbled, dizzy and incoherent.
And it did- and how.
Still, she wrote.
It wasn’t brilliant. But it was true.
She knew.
Creativity isn’t the thunder. It’s the grind of bone against bone.
It’s showing up when you’d rather run or hide.
Or turn to the other side.
It’s the courage to make something ugly,
and the faith that maybe—just maybe—it will hold.
She kept writing. The sun rose, as if a reward for all her waiting and braving.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.
She had stayed in the chair.
That was enough.
For now.
~Rhea
Jun 15
