Inspiration is real. I just look for it in the wrong places. Or in the wrong way. And I hold onto an expectation that it will come if I just wait.
Sitting in the living room, watching the world through the picture window, has become seductively normal. Life exists in that view, and the images, thoughts, and dreams that float through my head comprise my sedentary existence. I began to suspect my inaction and lack of motion was responsible for the difficulty I was having in sitting down at the keyboard and writing. Or doing much of anything else for that matter.
I sat waiting all summer for the myth of inspiration.
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