The period at the end of the first sentence is a sweet drop of honey water on my creative spirit.
The warm liquid pours down my being, as the letters tick out of my fingers, being woven into words.
The words synchronize—releasing my fluidity—freeing my mind.
When the mental stagnation melts away, my spirit animal opens her sleepy foxy eyes and flicks her tail in sync with my rhythm.
She begins to dance, feeling her skin tingle as the beat picks up.
A call goes out to her soul group to join her in flowing into the throbbing inspiration.
She moves with different companions—asking them secret questions, devouring bites of their wisdom.
Slinking from one dancing partner to the next, she travels further down the trail.