The ever elusive mistress of poets, writers and geniuses. The untamed spirit fluttering through humanity, gifting the occasional unworthy vessel it rests within. The welcome visitor of the artist, if only for a moment. The muse that whispers softly in the listening ear when least expected. She is the siren song of the restless heart. That which is but a dream for many; they seek, but they cannot find. Oh! How futile it is to pursue her! Like chasing the wind; she cannot be contained. She is like a spark. Igniting what holds the potential for fire, to grow into a flame, to burn into a blaze.
But you cannot create this spark. This spark is a gift, a beautiful, beautiful gift. But it is a gift. And a gift cannot be bought, nor can it be demanded. It must be given. And given it is. Given to many, yet received by few. I have entertained many a happy daydream about writing something great. Something that could one day be called a classic, even if not in my lifetime. To be a credit to my generation.
Alas, inspiration strikes me about as often as lightening does. (And I have never been struck by lightening.) I seem stuck in the endless rut, the never ending gutter that is mediocrity. Oh what a vast gutter it is! Plenty of room for anyone and everyone. Tragic, really. (I have plenty more to say on the topic of mediocrity, but that is another topic for another post for another day.)
Sometimes I think I'm getting it. That I have really been gifted with something exceptional, something worthwhile. Sometimes I feel like I am getting close. That with a little more effort, a little more time and a little more work, the spark could ignite. But the next morning I look upon what was yesterday's revelation to find it is really nothing more than today's failure.
But I wait in hope. I continue to try. I continue to write. I will keep looking towards the sky searching the horizen for sparks of new ideas. Because inspiration is like lightening. You never know when it might strike.
A dull decrepit desperation
A lack of every inspiration
That it's energies would lend
To my languid wandering pen
That some wonders yet untold
Would upon this page unfold
To hearten those without a prayer
Alas! Tis me that's standing there-
In this tepid inconsistency
That ever bores and frustrates