This life, this experience, this day…not enough, somehow. Looking, searching, yearning, is there not more? Why…not? Where is there more; beyond? Other lives, others’ lives, magical beyond proportion, it seems these days that this is not sufficient. I wish, I wish…Some spirit of the Universe, come and lead me, take me to the beyond, beyond being; beyond my being. Do I not…deserve; have I not carried the burden of my life to the furthest edges? Is there not more? Lead me! Take me! Detail? Texture? Density? You say to me that I hear the muted conversations with the self of selves which stretches time and condenses experience? Pay attention, rearrange the bounds of being and the boundaries of the categories which I tell my self are the edges of my being that I wish to go beyond; I tell myself so that they will melt when I arrive. Transcendence?

Tomorrow…is now here. I sit looking down upon the river of life which flows from the end of the land into the oceans of life, of other being. I float upon waters where the gravity of pushing down is borne lightly by the buoyancy of liquid’s deep. Transcend yesterday; tomorrow is now here. The yearning of what was toward what will be, is where I sit looking back, looking out. Where am I that I have arrived?

Sitting here, safe from winter’s ravaging, I feel inspired. The nape of my neck, stimulated, tickles my mind; telling me to think bigger: about more than whatever is. Traveling now, words pour out on paper as that inspired feeling invades my hand and fingers, moving into the pen which is my mind’s extension. I want to be inspired. Am I…inspired?

My thoughts, wandering, re-search that feeling of inspiration, concentrating on what is important to say. Are the feelings sufficient? Do they guide this pen? Do they arrange the contrast of blue-black upon white into the realm of the nearly profound?

Reading now what I have just written, I battle to regain the upper hand upon my self. The nape of my neck stretching, seeking; do what you do! Inspire me, stimulate me, drive me to say what you feel, what I must. Ah-h-h, so good!

To see the white of page slowly filling, abandons the editorial self. No longer must I read what I have written, it completes itself. Do I say anything? Is anything said through me?

Where are you, inspiration? Where do you lurk, popping out when I summon you, upon occasion? Writing!? I can write. Words upon words; sentences, paragraphs (the page is filling fast).

But what is there to say, which I have not said before? Am I merely arranging or organizing words? Am I still, was I ever, truly inspired? Do I need to think that I am inspired?

Does the dialogue between what is and might be, help cause me to jump to heights not tried? Yes? Yes. I attempt to reconcentrate the feelings, which are used to refocus the thoughts, translated into writing.

Have I written enough, too much? Does it say anything which seems truly inspired?

Worn. Exhausted. Exhilarated still. Inspired to be inspired.