Where do I feel inspired? It doesn’t have a name. I can only describe the region of space to you. Sometimes this place has four or more walls. The enclosure changes shape and size by the hour. When the temporary barriers finish serving their purpose, they transform into oak trees, mountain ranges, or another face of nature. The scenery around me tends to blend together and make me sleepy. I drift into a dream. My eyes provide no use for me here. Neither do my limbs or my organs or my teeth. Where I go while my body sleeps must stay a secret. For a few REM cycles each night, I know I live in a land without boundaries or expectations.
Once I wake up, I refuse to move before I remember that I don’t need to repeat what I did yesterday. My life at night prepares me for an existence on the edge. I shake off the dust and notice the walls I saw a day ago have shifted their moods. Some appear welcoming with blinding light. Others continue to hold on to the evening that enveloped them. If I spot a window, I gaze beyond the glass. I keep at my pre-breakfast brooding until I register my reflection and morning breath. Out there, in here. Both mean the same thing. I determine their worth. I decide what to take and what to return. I own no coordinates.
In this tangible world of mine, an assortment of actors perform their roles. I never expect much as an adult. If they happen to speak my language, friendship can blossom and persist for ages. A rare event. I get overwhelmed with possibilities and miss opportunities. I drown in thought. When a muse does choose to sing its siren song, I exhaust myself trying to connect with the force by focusing on all components of the moment. I botch most attempts. Logic fails me here. These particular instances possess the qualities of a solid, but I would have better luck if I grasped at vapor. The other bits still exist, but my interactions with them usually dissolve into muted moods or sense data. Perhaps I should give up searching, wandering. The impulse to create appears to disappear as frustration grows…
A sudden burst of insight sprouts from my brain! The rule reveals itself: every minute has the potential to mutate paths and impact the direction of my footsteps. Why chain my mind to time? Or details? I cannot tolerate a marionette fate controlled by money, weather, and no trespassing signs. I crave motion. I think I understand the reason for my triangulation. Shall I call my newfound discovery “freedom”? Labeling a phenomenon brought on by a random firing of synapses with a word like that could throw me off course. The architectural or geological surroundings seem to matter little. The biological bond always triumphs. The camaraderie that develops between beings who will and desire love and acceptance outlasts the duration of any organism. Wherever this link occurs, you might find me.
About the Author: Zachary Tipton lives somewhere between the Redwoods and the Rocky Mountains. He spends most of his free time writing music and short stories. He also enjoys painting portraits of famous figures and family members.
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