I had a dream.
I cannot remember the dream that well but there is a precise incident that kept me going. In the dream I was having a conversation with my friend. She was saying something that I do not remember now but when she finished her point I got up and said “Your words inspired me. I’m going to write a blog post now”. The dream ended at that. I don’t remember how and on what did she inspire me with I just know that I grew frustrated that I lost this source of inspiration once I opened my eye. I thought that I need this “inspiration”. I have been numb for a while I need something to dazzle with.
Isn’t what we all need. Forget food being the source of life. Forget that we need to breathe in order to live. Forget senses. Forget everything. Inspiration is the reason for our liveliness. Without inspiration we are like zombies with heartbeats.
What is it to be inspired though? What inspires us?
Henry David Thoreau found the purity of earth to be his inspiration. Edgar Allen Poe mocked Thoreau and other transcendentalists and their ways of living. Instead he found the imaginative gothic side to be his inspiration. Gibran Khalil Gibran found his life in Diaspora to be his inspiration. And many many others find their inspiration in different reasons and spots.
While inspiration means productivity in a way or another its stem is not poured with mere happiness.
Struggle, pain, hurt, happiness, sadness and other strong and weak waves that comes in our life. Those waves make inspiration. Sometimes bitter. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes large. Sometimes trivial.
We can’t stop wanting it though. The pits of our souls desires to be something. Desires to make something, to be something.
Funny how everything around us functions. Funny how we function.
The demons of our souls won’t leave us satisfied with what we have. We are robbed of the simplest of pleasures.