I have been thinking lately about what it would be like to lose the compulsion to create, to make poems, or any kind of art. Would I miss it? My life would surely be less hectic, spiritually speaking. I am curious, but curious the way I am curious about what it is like to be something I can’t even conceive of being, like a stone, or the sound of water dripping. Another state of being I will have to write my way toward, I guess.