Is creativity a skill or a gift? A skill can be developed over time, honed or taught. But a gift; kind of just bestowed upon at random. Chaotically and stupidly, people just get gifts, but skill takes discipline and practice. So what is it? Was Picasso just a crazy-lucky lunatic or was he a skilled at creation?

Creativity: what is it? Well, in short the definition is to use one’s imagination to create. Using only the original thoughts that come to mind to produce something. So really the question hinges on imagination: a gift or a skill? Can you sharpen your imagination? Can you train it? Can you control it?

Rabbit hole: What is imagination? The ability to fabricate new ideas, images or concepts using only your mind.

Okay, so far we have this: Creativity is to create using imagination. Imagination is to create using you.

I’m still really not sure whether creativity is a gift or skill. It could be a skill that most people don’t care enough to develop or it could be a sparsely given gift. I have absolutely no clue.

I want to feel freedom.

Desperately.

Hopelessly.

I yearn for spontaneity.

I want to kick off my shoes and skip.

To lie down on the pavement and sing.

Do it for no one but me.

I want not to second-guess. To truly live in the absence of an alternator motive.

I want not to think but to do — true carnal, animal desire.

To lose myself in longing. To need.

Purely and intensely.

I want to scream.

To cry.

To laugh.

And feel nothing but my own absurdity.

To descend into complete and total madness.

To thoroughly experience. Whether it's pain or bliss. Just to be completely and totally belonging to one moment. To be dedicated to one thought.

To sense every every atom, every cell. To feel, deeply and profoundly.

Impulsively.

To lose any coherent thought and just be untethered. Unbound. Unchained. Unhinged.

To mindlessly and chaotically do.

“Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure. Nothing ever lasts forever.”

— Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Tears for Fears

The song, Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge. Two years ago, I would have disliked this song with a passion. Like, hated it to its core. And that’s because I had no taste two years ago.

It's an absolute masterpiece. It starts with this oddly upbeat, cymbal sounding drumming. Coming in with this distant scratchy plucking; as if it was being played through a tube. A sound I can’t quite place kicks in. Like a version of the plucking, clearer but still just out of reach. A deep, heart-sinking base settles in, as the plucking ceases. Then the best part; the first lyric. “Got a big plan, this mindset maybe it's right.” Sung in this gruff monotone voice, it stuns you for a beat. The base is profound and startling; like shaking a massive sheet of metal, bringing it down a couple octaves and playing it with a guitar. It seamlessly matches the robotic voice. Along with the lyric; “It's cute in a way, till you cannot speak,” it begins to ramp up as the plucking returns. Pressure builds and builds. Sad, ghost-like harmonising plays. Lyrics hit the chorus. “I want to hold you close.” Emotion drips from the instruments as we climb up to the climax. The eerie voice, the ominous raw voices harmonising, the hunger, the yearning, the need in his virtually emotionless voice. Exposed, harsh thirst. The voices, blistered and sore. Singing their desperation; Their love; no, not love. Something sick. Something dark. Absolute carnal obsession.

“I want to fucking tear you apart.”

Fire rained. Bathing me. Devouring me.

The vibrant orange. The heat’s low hiss. The fierce crackling. Its viscous roar as the flames bit at each other. The word eat didn’t encapsulate it. The fire consumed. Desperate with hunger. So I embraced her. Letting her envelop me.

Sizzling skin. Bubbling blisters. Just barely tasting my tongue cooking. Agonizing screams rise into the air along with thick smoke.

I fried.

Heartbreaking, Soul shattering confusion. Like the world is too bright, too loud and

too open. Suddenly you can feel every single hair on your body brush against your skin. Every itch, every ache, every pain. You yearn for stillness but she never comes to save you.

Over-Simulation. The absolute hell that comes with being alive. While, judging by the word it sounds bearable—like an overly-medical diease name—it is definitely not.

Its like being on fire and the extinguisher is just beyond reach and you are flailing and squirming to grab it but you just can’t. You continue to thrash and flay but the same thought is repeating and trumping any attempt of saving yourself. The siring pain, scorching your body as the thought pounds through your skull and all you can think is: I want to die.

Basically, it’s absolute and complete torment.

It's like you're in an over-drive. Your brain is moving so fast, it's frustrated that your body can’t keep up. Your motor skills have gone completely to shit and it's so thoroughly aggravating, you just kind of malfunction and start freaking out. Suddenly distinctly aware of absolutely everything, and it sends you into a fit of rage fueled confusion.

Suddenly your sport's bra is too tight and it's digging into your back, restricting you. You're sweaty, so your hair begins to stick to your forehead. There’s hair in your eyes, but it’s so small you can’t get it out. You're itchy, but you don’t actually know where. So instead of figuring it out, you just scream. And I mean scream. You just let it all out into the middle of your gym's parking lot.

Over-stimulation is life's verison of drop toture method. It's starts out with a frustration or annoying menial task you'd think you'd be able to do. Next your in the corner of your room crying hystreically becasue your too-long-nails couldn't pick up the nickel on your desk.

Or maybe I'm just insane.

This is me writing without prompting. No teacher begging me to type; no given topic. Just my voice.

It feels purposeless to speak without purpose. To speak when no one spoke to you. Even now, I feel like I’m imposing. Forcing you to hear me talk. You didn’t ask for this, yet I continue to sully your poor brain with my voice. Like eye-pollution. The whole world is practically eye-pollution. And the internet is literally a perfect example of it. Like yelling into the void. We just spray our unasked-for opinions and unwanted thoughts out on unsuspecting people.

Like you. You probably didn’t know this was going to be a pathetic attempt at brutal honesty and analysation writing. But it was. And now you're stuck hearing a random kid attempt to write something not-cringe worthy.

Sucks to suck.

Seriously, be serious.

Seriousness is seriously necessary in a serious world.

And if anything this serious world is seriously serious.

Serious problems. Serious weirdos. Serious fun.

I'm serious about seriousness,

So be serious.