A touch of inspiration. It flows from my fingertips. It lingers on my lips. It is what flows from the tip of a pen and is what is dabbed on the edge of a brush. Inspiration finds form on the edge of a sculptors chisel.
Inspiration is a puff of white in a blue-stained sky. What inspires a cloud to dance across the sky? It is as if a puff of nothingness feels most free gliding across a canvas of infinite proportion. The driving force of life doubled as vaudevilles finest actor on a stage finer than any London theatre.
What inspires me may also inspire you. You inspire me.I think that you are glorious imperfection. I let all your missteps and nervous habits guide my fingers across a patient key board. That single strand of hair that lays out of place guides my pen across a sheet of crinkled paper.
The best part of being human is being. Being is so difficult. So we do it the best we can. We do it wrong, but by god that is oh so right.
I love how nature brings attention to the irregular. We notice the piercing white fur of an albino deer. The tree with roots bursting out of the Earth; the ground is too weak to hide such power. The runt of the litter. Attention is brought to the obscure because the obscure is beauty.
Be weary of the unhidden aesthetic. Beauty at face value only runs surface deep. True art is the painting bred from a tired hands brush strokes.
True beauty is you. It is me. It is the odor of mistakes. God, I reek of missteps. I smell poor decisions. It is intoxicating. It is exhilarating. Don’t. Stop. Being. Imperfect.
I have lived for perfection. Prayed for perfection. Sleep has been lost in hopes that maybe perfection would find me in the dark.
It has never come.
There’s no reason that I should write this. I was inspired though. Inspiration tapped me upon my shoulder and begged my thoughts to align themselves into something legible. Yet when I read this, it is illegible. The words are jumbled, and the grammar out of whack. It is so far from the ideal.
It must be beautiful.