Inspiration

En route to work, in a rain-wet world, barely lit by a sun not-yet-risen, clean-aired wind dancing with me, the city streets shining like vinyl and stop lights and neon casting preternatural color-saturated shadows, my mind full of the beautiful words I spent the entire day with yesterday. I listen to the groan of buses and the uniform patter of rain drops behind Lush serenading through my headphones, making the world just a little more enchanted; visions of a pale-skinned, mess-haired, angel-faced, and sleepy-eyed boy whispering wrapping long arms around me goodbyes. If only I could spend every day reading Anais Nin all day while my husband plays scientist in the kitchen. Because now, there is wonder in my world again.

I am always torn between reading and writing, input and output, inspiration and creation. But I know very well they're connected and despite my strong desire to write in response to what I was taking in yesterday, I resisted (for the most part), trusted the cycle of creation of which inspiration and example are necessary, and today I all full (not nearly enough; I've been suffering a drought, but this has been my first drink of cold, clean water in a long time), my writing is inspired, but more important than that, my world is illuminated, alive, worth living in again.