Sitting here, safe from winterâ€™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 mindâ€™s extension. I want to be inspired. Am Iâ€¦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.