I have no right to declare myself an artist; I am not. I merely create. Creation is not an art; it is a natural magic. Though my natural magic may be more ... natural, as compared to the real artists; those who battle reality, colours, shapes and sounds to produce glorified pieces of wonder so beyond our average comprehension that we stare and wonder if these artists - the real artists - have descended from celestial bodies beyond the peaks of reason. We envy them, we admire them; at times we want to be like them, to see the complex world through their eyes and perhaps understand how they could display their abstract views in seemingly simplicity. And we do this in such a way that we turn a blind eye to our orn arts; our own abilities; our own unique method of magic and creation. We oft' deny that what we create is magic, for we mistake it as art; ergo in the false belief that creation is art, we become oblivious to the magic of our physical, mental and spiritual beings and thus believe that we are of a lesser status than the real artists. But this is not the truth; we are in fact all equal in the matters of the heart, mind and soul, no matter where we are from, what we look like and what we do. True, our creations may not be as mesmerising as those of the real artists, but they are reflections of our hearts, minds and souls, no matter the manner the manner in which they were made, no matter the form of the final outcome; thus and therefore we create, and what we create is magic. I, for example, create drawings; sketches, really, but a picture is a picture, whether it is in pencil, charcoal, or any other conveivable medium. I also sing, play the guitar and keyboard, and compose. I write stories, poems, paragraphs such as this, and thensome. I giggle and laugh to myself. I prowl. I impersonate various animals, sounds and people. I do and say things of a random nature; often my randomness is feared and marked as instanity. But let me pose to you a question: Is creativity insanity?