The hidden spin of the ball. The lasting memory of a note. Wind floating along a cheekbone.
The hum of the electrical wires, connecting towns with cities with nature.
I’m looking for inspiration, a part of existence so unlike anything else. A feeling, but more than that. A directive to action. A call to arms and hands and fingers holding pens. A call for eyes to be drawn, and drawing.
Oh how I long to be on that childhood ocean of my waking dreams, able to feel the movement of the waves whenever I close my eyes. Having a ‘place’ to ‘go to’.
I have devolved, I feel. Have devolved into a consumer, looking for a new entertainment-fix. Too rarely closing my eyes to find the inspiration I have picked up. I have no doubt that I pick up more inspiration these days, but I fail to do anything with it.
I neglect my writing.
I neglect my thinking as I pace through weeks and months.
I promise myself ‘tomorrow will be different’. But I know tomorrow doesn’t come for another week. Two weeks.
Summer will once again toast my cheeks, will once again inspire me to go out and feel the sting of the grass, listen to the rattling of the leaves, taste the sweet fruits growing beneath the Golden Sun.
Once again taste lips, because what else is there for lips to taste but other lips tasting back. A most egoistical sharing where survival is equal to collision. Where orbits are broken and new galaxies form. Where matter becomes energy, heard half a world away in the hum of electrical wires.
We can be known unnamed.