Conception3 mins 363 3 mins 363
Everyone might have been here at some point or the other.
I mean…anyone searching for ideas, that is. Perhaps a writer trying to gather his words into a meaningful series of paragraphs?
A musician trying to decide what notes to harmonize with what lyrics to create a euphonious, yet haunting melody?
Or maybe not a creative artist, but an intern at a company staring longingly outside the window, dreaming about things he might really want to do?
Or maybe a student simply day-dreaming in history class while the teacher discusses the terms of the treaties of a bygone era?
Surely, everyone must have been here at some point. Anyone with the ability to comprehend express must have, that is.
There are clouds of smoke here. I can’t see any corners, walls or boundaries. Just clouds of smoke with tiny orbs of light floating in and out the clouds.
Lights of all colours.
White, blue, yellow, green, red, and even black. Sometimes, I see two orbs of the same colour. I’ve even seen three or four similar orbs at the same time too.
Some of them are huge, as big as stars. I see them floating, far, far away. So far away, that I wonder how I can still see them with the naked eye.
Yet some are tinier than grains of sand. Yet again, I’m left wondering how I can see even such tiny objects from so far away.
These orbs of light seem to hum something. When an orb floats past me, I hear it whisper something into my ear. Or maybe it wasn’t whispering to me in particular.
It must be whispering all the way, all the time. I just happened to come across its humming.
When I listen, the orb glows brighter in the aura of its colour and then slowly, dissolves into me. Like cotton candy.
I feel a tingle and arousal. It’s the conception of an idea.
When that happens, I know I must reflect on it. The gift of that orb. It’s precious.
Sometimes, I may not realize it. But to be gifted with an impulse to do something, to work on it, to have a new purpose, is no small boon. I return from that world into my own.
The writer now puts mind to pen and pen to paper, as he feels the dissolved orb let its contents flow through his hands, through the pen, to the paper.
The musician feels the dissolved orb pick an instrument for itself and listen to his hands playing an instrument that’s a perfect home for his lyrics.
The intern continues his work, refreshed after his break; he has just found a plan to work on by himself now, and he can see this learning experience as a craft to work better on his new idea.
The student is woken up and is asked to answer the teacher’s question. Now although they may not know what the terms of the Treaty of Versailles may have been, they’ve just discovered a new question to find an answer to, and upon the teacher’s word, they stand outside class, free to think further into the depths of their new discovery, made originally, exclusively for them, from their own inner world.