The Odd Art of Inspiration and It's Irony

As a creator -- odd that my fingers wrote cretin, and I had to go back to correct such a thing -- inspiration is something I desire. I need it. At times, it is the only fuel on my fire. I see it in others too.

Whether it's inspiration in the real world, or inspiration through someone else's creations, these flights of flattery, that we think another anything is good enough, neat enough, different enough, that we immediately want to create out of some sort of ritualistic sacrifice. Like an ode, or grave flower on the headstone of someone we probably don't even know.

Inspiration is irrational to me. There's something... oddly ironic about it.


I have made it well known that part of my early affair with writing spurred from my fear of dying. Leaving nothing worthwhile behind. So I chose to pen something, anything, and hope that it finds meaning.

So you could say I write to be me. To stand out as myself. I'm always bringing something from a static hum, into life, if only within my own head.

Yet inspiration is born out of the illustrious desire to mimic another. To create on the basis of something else that is beautiful, lighting a fire within you. It quivers your blood cells. Which doesn't come from the sense of pure creation with blank consciousness, and idealistic zeroed out word counts. That creation is no longer only attributed to you, and you alone.

Is the individual vision of a remixed work enough of a person's creation to stand out as theirs? What do you think?


Header Image by: Michael MacRae