Without her I am mush.
Like baby food. I am purple carrots and peas.
I am crippled by my inspiration and by my motivation, like evil clockwork or like the infinitely more evil circle of life. When I am with her, I have the inspiration to write – to write books and poems and music; to cherish every frame my brain captures of her – and yet, when I am with her I find no justification for leaving her in favor of my words. Then, when I am alone, my muscles burn with motivation – with the desire and need to produce; to create; to make use of my free time by developing my sentences and words and to do what is written in my very skin to do, and yet…
Without her, I am dried of inspiration. It is an uncommon curse – to see something so perfect that it shadows everything else. To dry the well of inspiration life has to offer because forever and always, she is what life should be. How silly, then, for that tree to grow like that, when it would look so much better if it looked like her. How stupid, for that rose to smell as it does, when it would smell leagues better if it smelled more like her. How embarrassing to think that the wind even breezes, when it would feel so much better if it moved even slightly more like her.
Life, in contrast, is pathetic.
But it is not always so. See, like a diamond, she does not keep all the light to herself. She prisms it out in many colors and hues and projects it to every corner of the world, so that when she is present, all of life becomes incredible. And once again, my inspiration returns. Unfortunately, she is an addiction and I cannot put her down, so I step right into that wicked clockwork of inspiration versus motivation.
They key, it seems, is to watch her but not have her. To be near her but not with her. To yearn for her, not to indulge in her.
Like asking a smoker to watch a lit cigarette, then write about it. It is in those words that you catch true desire – true passion and need.
The moments between watching what you want, and getting what you want.