The Ability to Create as Freedom

What can I compare
with this sense of freedom,
so full and so dense?
It isn’t from medication,
or because of people
or illusions,
fantasies
or a brain injury.

Nor has the life behind me
unlocked it with
a magic key.
Events just trail along
in Indian file
and take no interest
in us...

It is not provoked,
not suppressed,
not strengthened
by anything.

Neither by solitude,
nor by sharing.

It just stays there inside.
It strolls about out there.
Then it leaves.
I follow it with my eyes.

I don’t say goodbye
when it moves away.
I don’t wait for it to come back.

The two of us can shake hands
and even though it is much older than me,
it doesn’t act bigger,
or more... blue, for instance
(nothing of the kind)

But when we’re together
it knows that I am
the brush, and it the paints.
(And all sorts of other comparisons)
Or something like that

And I know that neither of us
gives a damn.
We’ve no time to watch ourselves
from the side,
and play at souls flying off to great effect,
circling above abandoned bodies.