Artists, writers, poets
Creative individuals in general
You know, the ones who create things
They create with their hands, minds, pens
Pencils, brushes, or a computer software
Each one of us gives birth more than once
In a lifetime
Each piece goes through a similar process
Ideas are planted in our minds
It can be a conversation
It can be a thought
It can be anything in this world
That is the holy union
That is how art is conceived
The ideas continue to grow
Think a fetus in a womb
Those ideas feed off our minds
Many sleepless nights
It takes over
It kicks around
We love it
We hate the painful process
Minus the throwing up
And the morning sickness
But think puffy eyes and dark circles
Like excited expecting parents
We talk about it to everyone
We share our excitement with the world
We think of names
We think of its conception
Letter after letter
Brush stroke after another
Brick by brick
Mouse click after another
Those ideas are shaped
Our loved and trusted ones
They are our sonograms
“How does it look?”
“What is it?”
“Is it good? Is it bad?”
Yes, those are the things we ask
Similar to “is it a boy or a girl?”
Or “is the baby healthy?”
And the ideas continue to grow
Anticipating its due date
We keep changing some of it
Making adjustment non stop
Again, like an excited mother
Who can’t decide on the room color
Or the baby crib and the room arrangement
The idea is our baby
And the baby continues to grow
That baby continues to grow in our minds
It keeps growing on paper or the canvas
It keeps growing wherever it is placed
It keeps on draining our emotions
It keeps draining our mental capacity
It becomes a part of us
We become part of it
It takes over us
Like a mother in front of a mirror
Inspecting the changes to her body
Inspecting the growing belly
We inspect the changes
With insecurity and amazement
We hate the changes
We love it
And we keep thinking of what is next
The name should change
Will I ever be the same once this baby is born?
