The Drawing Room

As a child I was free to go as I wanted, my parents and teachers stood to the side of me often watching curiously, or going about their own business. I lorded over them for their attention to what I was doing.
My hands were creating movie characters from blocks of clay and stapling together books I had illustrated by hand with writing that was darned illegible .
I sometimes ask if this same spirit of creativity is with me still. It does not come often
when I want it, and then the depressions come like betrayals of myself.
The freedom is sometimes there, but
Nothing comes to the page or drawing pad
Maybe it is same frustration I need to be reminded of.
When the home movie would go wrong
And I would hit the camera or my sister for blocking the lens.