musings of the evening

there is something which disturbs me.
i read a lot, daily. such as brainpickings, a website i really enjoy.
but: wheresoever, there is always this talk on creativity,
i am slowly saturated with it.
it sounds like a must do.
suffering, depression, melancholia, loss, illness,
sadness, madness, all exquisite, all meaningful,
all can enhance creativity:
"they" say.
am i born to be creative same as supposedly to propagate?
listen, i don't really like to write poems so much,
fuck around with paint or have long discussions
leading nowhere but to feel out.
if there is this creative force, i'd rather like
to take it into daily life, cook, eat well,
take time for leisure, create space and enjoy slowness,
make love and rest in loving arms
and dream and sleep and walk and take time out.
maybe- if i can- care for my love, for my horse, for a garden,
possibly make an old house inhabitable and a garden to bear fruit.
and i don't wish to do ALL alone. not at all.
it needs a partner who does not only want to be out
but can be ready to create and actively share perspective and a full presence,
warmth and soul and skin.
creativity made a religion for people living alone
and bearing disillusionment is for sure not an aim
to follow. it just happens. and maybe a little better than
mere boredom and frustration and despair. well, yes.
but that's all.
all the time, really, i read this stuff as if it could be a solace, a consolation:
it isn't.
i don't wish, i say it clearly, to be alone for the sake of so called
creativity.
nobody, nobody at all, is really alone.
nobody can be, neither the I nor the non-I.