I wish I could trace my inspirations as easily as my tongue traces my lips. I wish I knew the shape of them, without looking, the feel of them, without touching. I wish I knew the source.
I wish I could come back to them, re-moisten them, open them at will.
I’d kiss the whole world with my inspirations, just to see what it would do.
It would kiss me back.
I am sure it would kiss me back.
But my inspiration fades too quickly to kiss anything but a keyboard, a brief tasting of qwerty, and then it is gone.
I never get a chance to trace the source of my inspirations because I am tasting the shape of them, letting the flavors power the circuits of my body, letting them electrify me into becoming a singularity, like everyone else.
But this singularity is typing because flavors fade and inspiration dries, and my muse has no tongue. She depends on my fingers to speak her sound, and they slave to her.
Later she will fade away, wherever she goes, and I will try to find her, but it is near impossible when you cannot trace the path like a tongue tracing life into droughted lips.
My inspirations run dry, and I cough dust where once I could blow wishes into existence. My inspirations run dry, and so I chase tumbleweeds where once I harvested fiery peppers.
I wish I could fill myself up like a forest that dips her roots into the river, like a leaf that reaches into winter to catch the snow. I wish I could trace my inspirations, back to the source, as easily as I trace the shapes of my lips.
They are parched, almost always. My mind is like a desert. My lips crack, before a kiss that lands no where. My mind is an island.
I am in drought, and so I hold my face up to the sky– blowing kisses like wishes to the clouds– thirsting for the types of interactions that taste like rainfall.
What’s the most surprising thing that inspires you?