When I think about what it means to me, and to every artist, to regain or find one’s inspiration where once it was lacking, it brings to mind a million words and feelings and expressions. This is a story I write in an attempt to understand this feeling.
Inspiration and Redemption: A Story
And with his soul he grazed the summits of storm clouds, kissing each one and bestowing the greatest of blessings toward that great purpose: to bring life again to the desolate places through the terror of that falling river, through a cascadence of tears which falls upon an ancient cemetery with no keeper, no keeper and no rememberers bringing no flowers – upon this, my heart of inspiration, the rain fell, and behind my movements where once fell only dust now, slowly, painfully, and with a pointedness that tears asunder my old life and paradigm, falls a single drop of blood onto this dune of sand, out of which springs a single tulip.
Looking into the wind and rain, having been born again through blood and blessing, the flower becomes the power of God to me, blooming in an instant to reveal the nectar from which will come my redemptive reckoning. Ragnarok has arrived and all was as if it had never been, and now I am alone, in an eternity. But no longer am I dead in my aloneness, for the soul that flew in, and was part of, the sky and the world sent me this flower which I now smell and from which I come alive; in my blindness I smell and my eyes now perceive the darkness, where before not even darkness was known to me.
I take my cracked and vulgar fingernails, grown sharp in the grave, and wretchedly tear two holes in my skull so that my eyes may see the world and love it. Bloodily, I rip open an inverted mountain out of which comes
then a whisper,
then a moan,
then a crackling,
then a speaking,
then a cry,
then a scream,
then all of my thousand lives of which I have lived dead and destroyed in demotic dullness of agony I let loose through a cavern of terrified bats that screech through the cage that was my imprisonment until its walls have fallen and lay on the desolate ground accurséd to never rise again.
And so the water falls to the ground, clasps itself to the molding of life that is blood; out of blood the life rises and spreads itself to all that was dead so that all may become alive and I accept; my blood gushing out but I let it: it is proof of my existence.
So I am new; I am not whole but I am.
And so the last of the moment passes away in sighing silence.