“Good writing inspires me to write, good dancing inspires me to dance…”

As I search for the one thing, or person, or situation, that may trigger my creative gun to fire a flood of juices and in turn make me ecstatic in an almost lustful fashion, I go through a series of states.

I had this idea, a beautifully well-rounded female of an idea, that I played with in my head and that I made assume different shapes. I enjoyed that first state immensely but, right before I was willing to spill the notion down in virtual ink on a screen, she vanished. I only remembered the title.

Perhaps music will lure her back, I told myself. I played my favorite music and I stretched the title, I probed and dug; “what’s relevant to this title? Why don’t I feel the same tingling as I did when she was here? Why don’t those induced to appear before me now match her not in volume nor in essence?”

Where did she go? Why doesn’t she want to return?

Then I determined I will read pages of a book that may seduce her at a certain line into manifesting herself as she did once. That fat book intimidated me; Tolstoy could not have possibly known War and Peace better than I do these days – dismissed.

TV won’t do, it never did. I’m afraid she may not be immune from the gore as I have become. My skin, thick as an elephant’s, hurts all the more from bruises left by news bulletins.

“Fragile. Handle with care” – that’s what my package said. There was an arrow too: “This side up”.

I placed my fingertips on the keyboard and I promised that I will type and type and type until I reach her but some guests call in and I am interrupted even before I commence. The crowd upstairs sure can conspire miraculously should they desire to, can’t they?

I know she was a philosopher, discussing an aspect of human life based on meditative observations. I know she was deep, at least that’s how she seemed to me, and I know I created her. Yes, I created her and she was mine for a second but she eluded me during a mental orgasm.

She didn’t leave a number. I must create her again.

My quest does not stop. I think maybe if I tidy my room, better the setting, she will emerge. I install a hanging round light above my bed for when I dare to read before I fall into sleep’s embrace, all the while thinking of her, and I arrange things in the room – and rearrange them- as I reckon must find her fancy.

Tired as I am, I turn the laptop off. I cannot stand the sight of it without her spirit; it is dead to me at this point. I put on some Fairouz and turn the main light off, immersing the room in a dim red light that excites the senses, and I rest on the couch.
I envy those who are not inspired. Inspiration is torture if you cannot talk it into your level of appreciation and it’s as if it defies all order and has you abiding by its chaos. I am tempted, time and again, by this trying concept. I am tortured by it and it does not yield to my pleas, never satisfies its suppliant.

Love, inspiration – come back.

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This entry was posted on Friday, July 28th, 2006 at 6:42 pm and is filed under Literature. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.