The Elusive Nature of Inspiration

The ideas aren't gone. They're worse than gone. They hover just out of reach, like a name on the tip of your tongue, like a dream vanishing the moment you wake up. They taunt. They wait. They know they're in control.

I keep waiting for something to break, for the spark to come back. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. Maybe inspiration forgives. Maybe it doesn't.

This much remains certain: words come, eventually. Even these words. Even now. Whether they're worth the wait: that's another story.

(write anyway—because rust doesn’t stop a blade from cutting)