Unreachable as the Sun

Let us be honest here.

This is a place where I am unknown. 

Though I breathe the same air as you do, my dear readers, I am as unreachable to you as the sun.

Should we pass each other on the street, neither of us would recognize the other as a fellow poet or even as a fellow human.

If we were to share a smile, it would be fleeting and rare and quickly forgotten. 

So let me be honest.

Listen closely for what I have to say will not be heard by many. 

Perhaps it does not deserve to be heard by many. But that is well beside the point. 

Listen close, for however undeserving it is, it is honest. 

Of this you can be sure.

I have yet to know true inspiration.

The kind of inspiration that drags you from where you were and throws you into where you are. 

I have only read about it.

And wondered.

I long for this inspiration desperately.

Even if it came with aching and sorrow, I would take it.

I have yet to know true inspiration.

But I do know of the small stirrings of hearts.

When I look overhead and I see a flock of birds and I want to fall to my knees and pray to a god I don’t believe in.

When I hear a particularly lovely chord and I feel that all the world is working together to accomplish one pure moment of overwhelming beauty. 

When I see a mother caressing her child with such care and I realize, suddenly, that I must be a kinder person. From each day forward, my first thought in the morning is one of love.

Let us be honest. 

None of those things have ever happened to me. 

Why am I lying to you, dear readers? 

I have never known true inspiration. 

I know how it feels to write. How sometimes, it is absolutely effortless. How othertimes, it leaves you sweating with effort. Breathless with euphoria. Wrought with sadness. I know what it is to have an idea and what it feels like to write it down. I know this, if nothing else. There have been times, when a pen is in my hand, that I can see the edges of inspiration. I feel it like you can feel the sun; warmth and light but impossible to touch. 

I am young still, searching for my inspiration every day, seeing flashes of it each time I catch a sighting of the moon. 

I have yet to know true inspiration.

But if I am to be honest, I must say this:

I have never felt anything more precious than the small stirrings of my heart.