Have you ever had those feelings, surely you know the ones,

the feeling you get when you sit done to write something, draw something, play something, and suddenly it takes on a life of it's own;

and then as you finish, you look back at it and just wonder, how did I just do that?

This amazing thing I just created, but it was like I didn't...

It's like my hands moved themselves, already knowing exactly what to type, what to draw, what to do.

It amazes me every time I stop and look back on what I've made, some with skill I didn't know I had, and perhaps, indeed not mine but whatever possessed my hands to make them.

Still, sometimes it seems to fail for I still find mistakes which remind me I did indeed make them.

Am I alone in that feeling? I doubt that I am, but sometimes I wonder...

What it is that makes us do things like that? How can such things, so inanimate, be so very much alive?

Stories that we're writing, suddenly seem to be writing themselves.

Paintings, drawings, they themselves tell which stroke of the wrist comes next, not you anymore.

Instruments come alive, moving your fingers to exactly the right places, not you.

The instrument becomes the musician, the art becomes the artist, the story become the writer.

Am I the only one who notices this?

Or do you see it to?

The things we are passionate about, coming to life.

Can any truly understand it? Make sense of how they take on their own life?

Who knows... but maybe, someday, someone will figure it out.

But maybe too, the day we truly understand it will be the day where it is magic no more... And isn't magic such a wondrous thing?

A/N: I hope this makes sense... I don't want it to be extremely confusing but, well I'm not very good with poem like things (which I'm counting this as...) I hope you liked it and got what I was trying to say. If you didn't leave a review about what you think I'm trying to say and then maybe from there I can make it more clear. And leave a review if you DO get what I'm trying to say! X) Thank you for reading!