I Have A Purple Heart

the death of inspiration

Getting up off the ground and turning the page seems almost unfathomable.
The beginning is beautifully written,
but it is the hardest to write.
When inspiration blooms like a bed of wild roses in the spring it seems like such a miraculous event.
Being able to translate my thoughts into words that flow like a warm stream is something magical.

Once I've started, nothing can stop me.
My hands caress the pages with tender affection.
Dozens of stories sprout from my finger tips and create a garden of words on those thin pieces of parchment.
The smell of ink and paper tantalize and tease my senses.

A wealthy man with a sick daughter.
A woman who sees the world for the first time, after years of being blind.
A man on the battle field who fights for his life so he can hold his wife in his arms once more.
The only limit is my imagination.

The one thing missing however, is dedication.
Ideas grow stale like week old bread.
Stories half finished lay in dusty corners of my mind.
Inspiration can be so hard to find.
My confidence and momentum diminish as I grow distant from the worlds created by my hands.
The garden wilts away until there is nothing left but dry leaves and thorns.

Another story goes untold.