Maybe

I wonder if the creative bug is one that only persists for a fraction of our lives, inspiring hope while it lives and regret after it's gone. When it decides to pack its bags, it hurriedly flings into the open suitcase, the pair of honey-glazed sunglasses which makes the world look a bit sweeter, the calm blanket of patience that quietly wraps all our mistakes in a single bundle, perhaps with the word "Tomorrow" sewn at the hem, the box with matches that set our thoughts akindle, and then crams it vehemently shut. Then it gathers all its little children that make our minds prolific and sits at the steering wheel honking at the neighbour who grudgingly gets his car out of the way. An arm that started to wave but unfeelingly checked mid-way, lands fingers demurely on silken hair, tentatively looping strands. A pair of chagrined eyes fixed unabashed at the rear-view mirror, waiting for a twin pair to quietly meet its gaze. The ones that do are blood-shot and tired. Then the revving of the engine, the swerve onto the road and the lengthening expanse of road from throat to gut. The last glimpse of an evening sun glinting off a diminishing windshield is farewell enough to match any words lips can form. But a fond one, it is not.