If there is one question I’ve consistently thought about past six or so years, it’s the nature and origin of creativity. Isn’t it wonderous and mysterious? All logic dictates that I should be eating and thinking about or participating in sexual reproduction right now. But I’m not. I’m participating in a creative work (regardless of how meager it might be), thinking about the nature of some abstract concept, while listening to a music I’ve sought out on the web. Activities that have so far eluded conventional attribution to genetic codes inherent in biological beings.

Sometimes I look out the window, toward some endlessly delicate and beautiful pattern of light and lines drawn by air and planetary motion. I can actually feel some kind of strange emotion I am not enough of a writer to describe in words. Time to time I look around myself in everyday life, only to discover that by some coincidental play of time and motion, something beautiful had passed by. And I feel a strange urge to describe it, to capture the moment in a medium that isn’t as ephemeral, to understand the essence of what made the moment what it was.

Such behavior doesn’t seem to be limited to human beings, although human beings might be the ones most eloquent in putting such urge and curiosity to the motion and the act. I can think of a few animals capable of displaying more curiosity about the world than their owners (as strange as it sounds, it’s true). Such observations lead me to believe that curiosity and creativity may be some inherent characteristics of all life forms with certain physiological feature, such as a brain stem. Maybe there is something within how the brain is structured that leads all sufficiently complex life forms to pursue their own visions of Pygmalion?

Something is here to be described, yet how it is to be done is unclear. The only understanding between the object, the moment, and the human is that all things she sees in front of her is in this world, arising naturally from the chaos of the world itself. So she sets herself to recreating the world in her own vision, to capture the indescribable she witnessed for the fleeting moment. The world thus created is formed with a question, with an urge. The world thus created has a directionality, a philosophical intentionality. A whole world with an intention, temporary or otherwise, is disturbingly similar in its description to life. Perhaps she has created a life. Perhaps arts and writings intend to seep out into the world. Perhaps in the future, the art will come alive, breathe with us, and stare back into our eyes.


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