My inspiration comes in flashes
and I guess I haven't been struck by lightning in a while. Lately my life fits into a tidy little box. There are no messy edges, no carelessness. There's nothing to write about. And yet here I am still struggling to put words to my humdrum. Passion to my plaintive. I don't know what moves me to do this. I don't know why my pen always finds the page. I am inspired by a lot of things. Today it was a little girl in red mittens, A sign in a living room window, The wandering man outside the Damen St. Liquor Store, pushing a heaving cart of bulging garbage bags. I know its unwise of me to envy his messy edges, but I do anyway. My inspiration is fleeting, It never sticks. I subsist in it for as long as I can, backstroking happily through waves of insight and revelation and then nothing. Poof. Like a dream, it's gone. I wake to find myself staring at that homeless man's face, feeling nothing as the woman in the car behind me begins honking her horn. And all at once, I'm just a girl in a car at a stop sign.
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