Asa Alexander

I had a moment of inspiration, as a looked out across the long, green yard. There was a pond at the end. Willows bent across the still surface and the setting sun were a stunning panorama. The depth of what rose in me then was breathtaking. I wanted to paint, to write, to scream out loud, to create something beautiful and meaningful and share it. Something drawn from the boundlessness and purity of that inspiration. I was nearly embarrassed by the honesty of what I felt—I was a new man. I was going to do it this time.

The sun set shortly after. The night wore on into darkness. I left a few minutes later, shaken alive but the feeling had lessened. I thought about the pond and the green grass, the setting sun. As I walked in my front door though, the inspiration had left. I no longer wanted to create something beautiful, and that old familiar ennui washed over me. I felt lethargic. I was alarmed by how tired and uninspired I felt, but that passed quickly too. I decided to turn on the TV.