It’s quite amusing, you know, to look out of the window to your left on a zesty Monday morning, and have that sudden bout of unfounded inspiration. Inspiration, though, to do what? I have not yet figured this out, and it frustrates me to no end.
Perhaps I could draw a cartoon. No, once I put a graphite pencil to paper, the three-year-old equivalent to art spills out, and utterly embarasses me.
I could go for a run around the block, and then do some light exercise? That’ll make me feel great! No… that means getting off my ass, finding some gym clothes that are probably far too well hidden in my cupboard, and I won’t mention getting my heart rate up!
No, I think I’d be more satisfied by putting it all into the Too Hard Basket.
So, tonight, I decided to try my hand at fiction. It worked brilliantly at school when I was made to do it, and it even turned out quite well when I was asked to write a chapter for some friends who are writing a book. Amazing! I can do this.
Three sentences later; nothing. Not a single word, or idea, to come out. How annoying.
Life would be peachy; if only I didn’t have to contribute. Call it lazy? I probably just have to admit that to myself. I feel as though I did, long ago. Oh but the taste of denial is so sweet on my lips.
Inspiration can go nowhere without something to push it along; an idea. Of some sort. I am half-way there – the inspiration part of life I believe I have perfected in every way, shape and form. As for the ideas bit, though…Half-way is just not good enough, in this world that I live in.
It is me it is scrairy but it is true