It's eighth grade. A school dance. I'm that kid in the corner. The one who watches the guys and the girls getting closer even though they don't know what they're doing.

And I envy them from afar. I envy their willingness to push their bodies together, to feel the heat, the tension, the mystery of sexuality between them.

It wasn't until college that I kissed a girl. It wasn't until sophomore year that I lost my virginity. And now, while I'm enjoying an amazing relationship with a sexy lady who's also my best friend, I find that I still have tension when it comes to body contact on the dance floor. Not so much with my girlfriend, but with other women, yes.

Last night, as I was making a bedtime snack of warm milk with a bunch of spices, I felt a dash of creativity run through my veins. I've made this snack many times, yet somehow, simply the way that I moved through the kitchen, picking up the cardamom and sprinkling it into the pot felt like a creative act.

What was that?

Sometimes, I am drawn to drawing, welcomed to writing. It's as if I can't help it — I am being called to get that stuff out that's in me, or coming through me.
This feels like inspiration.

Other times, I'm facing creative expression like it's a must. It's my duty. I HAVE to do it because I made a pact with myself. Or else!
This feels like discipline.