I have so many things that I love, but I cannot seem to make a story out of them. I have words that swirl about my head like a cloud, but they are miniscule droplets that refuse to come together and form rain – rain that would fill a mountain vale with a purple-grey quiet and make the summer greenery wet and feel like spring again. Like my life, with the trees that sometimes group together to suggest a forest, images gather in my mind with such realism that I believe the story to be there, somewhere; a landscape lurking behind fog, so grand that even the glimpses make you gasp in delight. I do not need an imaginary world to live in. I need a work of art, something to unveil, an expression, something that can be given away. But neither can I labor on with only the barest of purposes, hoping to gain momentum. I am an artist, not an artisan. I must reach for something beautiful, or else I will touch nothing.
And yet to wait for inspiration is to begin to die slowly.