Some of us, maybe all of us,

are gripped, from time to time, by crazy urges

to draw, paint, weave tapestries,

write poems, ride bulls, take photographs—

not to make a living at it,

but because it’s what we live to do.

Sometimes it seems to be a curse and a burden

as much as a joy and a blessing,

and we are not sure which it is,

not that it matters,

stuck with it as we are,

with the urges that are life,

for life.

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