We get stuck in the rut of recycling. Reusing old objects of others’ affections. Reiterating others’ statements. Re-telling of tales which were once lived and thought of like book pages antiquated by the passing seasons. But rarely we plow the thick grass and create puddles for ourselves. We steal re-shared and reinstated old gibberish only once logical to its creator. We get stuck in the old river bed, traveling in comfortable pontoons, excusing our lack of inception to busy lives, half-drunk coffees, and sore brain muscles to mundane chores and patterned scutwork as the thread scuttles back and forth making the banal the highlight of our day. We are creatures of routine, easily lulled by the decrepit beat, hoary ideas, and wasted reprocessed thoughts. We long to create. Something. Somewhere. Other than the day-to-day. Other than humdrum. Else we endanger ourselves to riding the gentle wave and deepen the furrowed abstraction in tune with the wrinkling of our brows.