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| Musings on Inspiration by © visionwolf2 We change, the seasons changes, it's all about the wheel. There is nothing any one of us has ever said that is new or orginal or different. In a thousand places in a million languages both spoken and silent, we have said it all. I have no idea, then, why I am compelled to say anything at all. Perhaps it is the internal and instinctive need to make a mark on the world, to leave my voice behind me, to leave an echo of who I am in the vast canyons of human impression. Am I then the sum total of all my words, or is it all about the reaction those words create in the people who read them? Does it matter whether they are read, or is what is important the fact that I leave them in my wake, clanging around the Universe like pots and pans banged together? Is there any point in writing out the contents of my mind? Am I supposed to be the Observer, the Recorder, the keeper of all that others leave unspoken, unwritten, unexpressed? Is it my job as a writer to say all that others are too afraid or ignorant or uneducated or choked with academia to say? What is this thing of Inspiration, the wraith that floats through my mind like some trailing shroud of steel-shod ghost horses? Is that the legacy I am left with? To feel the things that must find outlet on paper or screen because there is no where else for them to go? I have to know. It eats at me and keeps me up at night, wondering and resentful of all those souls with more visible gifts. Wondering why it seems like a plaything to them, this creature of Inspiration. They treat it like a neighbor kid who's always bugging them for treats, treat it like some throwaway leaflet in the newspaper of their lives. Where they paint or draw or sing with careless neglect, I shelter and coddle and treat Inspiration like a lover rarely seen and sorely needed. Wherein lies the difference? In my need or their disdain? Vision Wolf, who thinks too much and writes too little |
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