When you arrive at the coast of creation, as you gain momentum, you find others that gather strength at your side, and together, as a force, with simultaneous and similar ideas you form a wave that explodes, in a catharsis, against the soal of the open and public.
A finished work, loaded with salt and spume, that vanishes as these would. And together with this companions, and others that come, you return once and again, to the crest at times, to the soal right after.
But the tide sweeps past, the sea mutates and with many colleagues lost, as they decide to evaporate among the sand knowing their duty fulfilled, you can start to feel that those picking up the wave are unfamiliar, that the reflection in their swell is not yours and in a stubbornness fight to keep up to date with the changes in the sea, even when you lack the time to return to the soal. And as dead spume, you remain idle, and without envy, you feel that it is not that you cannot return, it is that you do not want to. For what is creation without desire but a burn down in repetition.
It is then, when against all logic if you still do not wish to evaporate among the sand, that you have to forget the deafening soal. You have to avoid returning to a wave that is not yours. And back to the sea, rejoin with those currents that gave you life, remodel them, seek for colleagues among the waters and together, when ready, come back, with a wave that once more will have your scent and your salt.
