I was a writer once....
Is there really such thing as Inspiration? I feel like its ghost
visited me sometime past. I have memories of it. The whirl of energy
sweeping before it left me giddy and perched so high that crawling down
was a frightening thing. Why didn't I just let myself fall? If I ever
get the chance again I shall fall so happily that wings might sprout
and lift me on air to soar. Or crash. Even that would be fun I think.
If Inspiration IS out there still, it's forgotten me in its rush to someone worthy of its gifts. Life goes on and washes me with it along the halls and street corners of my day. And weeks pass and I've gone nowhere. Well, I have, but in this little corner of my brain those travels are not so interesting. Other lands await this corner where the elves live. Other lands....
Must prepare for the dinner guests. Interesting people we've known for years and see not nearly enough. I will enjoy them.
But the elves... they don't want to make dinner, catch up on others' lives and sip wine as we shoo the mosquitoes away. They want to explore other lands tonight. Except that when I come back to them as the moonsliver hangs in the sky, they will be all curled up around each other, the big burly ones snuggled around the little scribblets, protecting them from the darkness that comes each night to suck the energy from my bones, pulling me down into such welcome oblivion.
Maybe tomorrow. Other lands don't go away; they lie under the same sun. Maybe tomorrow I shall take my walking stick and explore, seeking the elusivity of inspiration under a few stones along the way.
Or not.
I can imagine it, though.
Originally posted on LiveJournal in 2008
If Inspiration IS out there still, it's forgotten me in its rush to someone worthy of its gifts. Life goes on and washes me with it along the halls and street corners of my day. And weeks pass and I've gone nowhere. Well, I have, but in this little corner of my brain those travels are not so interesting. Other lands await this corner where the elves live. Other lands....
Must prepare for the dinner guests. Interesting people we've known for years and see not nearly enough. I will enjoy them.
But the elves... they don't want to make dinner, catch up on others' lives and sip wine as we shoo the mosquitoes away. They want to explore other lands tonight. Except that when I come back to them as the moonsliver hangs in the sky, they will be all curled up around each other, the big burly ones snuggled around the little scribblets, protecting them from the darkness that comes each night to suck the energy from my bones, pulling me down into such welcome oblivion.
Maybe tomorrow. Other lands don't go away; they lie under the same sun. Maybe tomorrow I shall take my walking stick and explore, seeking the elusivity of inspiration under a few stones along the way.
Or not.
I can imagine it, though.
Originally posted on LiveJournal in 2008
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