workin hands

I can't remember the last time I truly created something. even food, which is normally my everyday creative, has been seriously lacking these past twelve? thirteen? weeks-- I mashed sweet potatoes this morning with a fork. does that count? my lack of creativity - journaling, painting, even thinking - does not make me less of a human. I am not defined by these actions, but often when I do them, it just feels right. there is something about cracking and peeling the shell of a garlic clove, mincing it into teeny pieces until the juice is all over my hands, and throwing it in some coconut oil along with zucchini and onions and whatever other vegetables I have laying around. there's something about paint-covered palms and writing a letter that satisfies in some small way.

I think I was made to create things. and when I don't, I feel a sort of deadness. I feel less human.