Waiting. For inspiration.

The blank canvas stands alone, centre of the room.
Waiting. For inspiration.

That small line, flashing its usual taunt at her as her fingers rest against the keyboard. The classics dance from the stereo, she grasps at their notes attempting to turn at least one concerto into a piece readable by someone feeling the same string of thoughts she is.
But there she sits.
Waiting. For inspiration.

To be inspired must elicit 'that' emotion. The wrenched emotions from a place within. Deep, below the concious level of thoughts.
Below considerations of food and drink.
Below merely the levels from which we normally think.
It is there that inspiration sits.
And waits. To be called upon.

And to what can call its name?

The pen, resting effortlessly against unlined paper. its writer wrestling with the weight of gravity to drop the encased ink captive from its gentle choke hold.
Waiting. For inspiration.

Beckoning those wispy thoughts from that chasm. Mystery, love, pain.
sighs innumerable have only escaped from its depths when briefly unguarded.

But what can bribe them, what can pull them out?
Notes strike a small string hidden within the piano. Its resonance enlivens those inner thoughts.

Rise they will. Beckoned they have been.

Waiting for this moment.
Inspiration has come.

Did you really mean to call its name?

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    What is this?

    A conglomeration of thoughts at any given moment.