At this point in my life, I guess I’m not entirely sure if I want kids. But if I do, I want them to be creative. If I do have kids, I want them to be the most expressive little turds out there. I want a fridge covered in paintings from chubby fingers and I want my halls to be filled with voices of future troubadours. Let me explain why.
I want my kids to be creative because I want them to see the world in a different light than anyone else. I want them to see the world as a mix of wonderful awful things, and I want them to be so altered by it that they have to replicate it in some way. I want them to see the world in a spectrum of colors that never ends, a collection of pigments that fill their eyes with wonder.
I want my kids to be creative because I want them to stand out. I want them to be individuals, and interact with people in a completely different way than they are expected. I want their individuality to cause them to stick out from the masses, and I want the hardship they face to change them into people who see the world for everything it is, and perhaps for everything it is not.
I want my kids to be able to cope with everything they feel in a way that makes our dark world a more beautiful place. I want them to find solace in the stroke of a brush, peace in the strum of a guitar. I want them to have the ability to change their outlook by their own magical design. Maybe this is inconsiderate of me and maybe I will have different opinions when I really grow up, but I want my kids to feel the sweetest saddest pain in creating something wonderful. I want them to be emotional. I want them to be overwhelmed with so many emotions for this world that they get caught up in trying to change it; they get caught up in trying to change the ugly.
I want my kids to be able to get lost in a project; to be able to feel the cramps in their neck or the calluses on their fingertips as a constant reminder of who they are and a constant reminder of who they want to be. I want them to squint their eyes in the late hours at a computer screen with so much to express that they can’t help but forget the words they need to finish a sentence. I want them to obsess over the way the light hits the grass and I want them to spend an hour finding the perfect shade of green. Most of all, I want them to be able to lose time when they are submerged in a project. I want it to freeze for them.
I hope my kids to understand the feeling of glitter in their nostrils and oil pastels on their faces. I want them to carry the weight of a microphone in their hands, the stickiness of the space bar, and the squish of an eraser in between their teeth. I want them to be stronger than ever as they let go all of their ailments and make something that takes heart, anything that takes heart. I want them to be strong at all times, yet weak enough to feel the earth move in circles. I want them to feel small when they look at the map. I want my daughter to dream of faraway places and the smell of an old book, not of boys. I want my son to dream of a drum set and the color of the moon, not of monsters. I want my kids to taste the mist on a rainy day and watch the lightning with their eyes open wide. I want them to be creative.