I reflect on stuff all the time.

Life stuff.

Maybe it’s my poetic mind (I like to believe that).

Or maybe it’s nothing but reflecting, chewing, drifting.

And maybe there’s no glorious reasoning behind it.

But I’ll just go for the poetic mind anyway.

So…

A moment ago I realized how intensely amazing it is that everything has been written about by now, yet there’s still plenty of room for more.

There’s a finite amount of words we can work with, but we haven’t used them up, and never will.

Originality is not just finding new grounds.

It’s also walking and exploring the old ones, but with a new feeling, a new appreciation.

A new freshness.

For me, it’s absolutely clear that writing is the act of capturing energy.

My excitement, my wonder, my curiosity, it’s all somehow injected into words, soaked up by them, ready to ooze out again when being read.

I mean…. stuff like that never ceases to leave me utterly speechless, and humble, and deliciously lost.

What IS energy?

We talk about it like it’s banana bread, or garbage bags.

Energy.

Stuff.

‘It’s all energy.’

And it has been written about in many, many ways.

Talked about in many, many ways.

Many different ways.

Many beautiful ways.

But never exactly like this.

How about that?

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(Photo by @nbmat, for Unsplash)