Lacking

I realize I haven't really written anything worth reading in a long time. 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 that is filled with love ... to the fucking brim. There are no messy edges. No carelessness. No angst.

Basically 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 fingers always search for the keys.

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 old man pushing a heaving cart of bulging bags full of cans past my house to the beer store.

I know its dysfunctional to envy his messy edges, but I do anyway.

The thing is, 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 the sudden, I'm just a girl in a car at a stop sign.