Inspiration and imagination.

I don't want to write about love because I haven't felt enough of it. All I've felt is a longing for it. I don't want to write about politics or God because I don't know enough about either. I haven't given much thought to my life or my childhood. Or I have, but not enough to find the poems and the stories that lay there. I'll trip over them one day, fall flat on my face, and give them shape as I heal. At least that's the hope.
I want to write about inspiration... and creativity, but tonight I'm too tired. Believing that I was created in the image of a Creator makes me feel the need to exercize that part of my 'self,' my being. Ideas are hard to come by and are never good when forced. The good ones usually fly away before i can put them on paper. The ones that don't leave before I am done. Forcing me to plead with them at a later date to return so that I can truly do them justice.
I do know that I am more pleased with my creations when I feel as though I am submitting to something outside myself rather than digging within. There is nothing good within me worth writing about. I shouldn't say that. I should say there is nothing within me that I could make good. It has to be pulled out of me by something else, washed, and handed back to me to give it shape. Even now I feel that I am rambling because I am trying too hard to say something worthwhile. What is worthwhile? I'm not going to find it and express it at 12:48 in the (morning?). That's for sure.
But I can't sleep so I will keep trying....
Remember the time, as a kid, when a stick could be a sword or a gun depending on which way you held it? I remember crawling through massive forests and fording swift rivers, tracking some elusive ninja or my imaginary girlfriend's kidnappers. My friends and I truly were whatever we wanted and wherever we wanted. At what point do we lose that? When does a stick become just a stick and not a Colt revolver. (Pardon all the weaponry, but boy's don't really come up with anything else). Those massive forests were really just the the trees and streams between houses.
My point is that at some point we lose that purity of imagination and I want to know why. Why does creativity become something we search for, rather than something we can't stop? My imagination used to be so overwhelming that I often spent more time there than in the real world. Sounds scary but I think it's natural. Something God intended in his creation. Maybe it's because we are stuck in this life knowing that something else exists that we can only glimpse through our imaginations. That reality exists elsewhere and our imaginations are the windows we can look through to see it. I think Schopenhauer or Feuerbach or somebody said this once. Something similar anyway.
Did God create our imaginations so that we would in turn never stop creating? Or was it so that, while stuck here, we could glimpse the Divine and know that something else awaits us one day. Maybe none of this makes sense.