The Soul of Inspiration

Inspiration is unexplainable; how it takes shape out of nothingness and forces you to create something out of nothing and make it so beautiful, or ugly enough to be beautiful.

“Begin to write” the creature of the void whispered in her ear at 3 a.m as she was in the middle of the strangest dream where there was something in her brain that felt like electricity spreading throughout her body and the sound of an ambulance and everything that did not make sense in a dream, it was as if her body was a city where everyone was loud and busy.
“Begin to write” the voice whispered closer, as she woke up covered in sweat and shivers to the sound of thunder and raindrops making music.
Half conscious, she began to type;
“Who am I and what is my soul made of?”
She drank a glass of water as she glared at her typewriter, wondering, asking questions it cannot answer with the echoes of raindrops.
She stared at what she wrote long enough until it seemed to answer itself; sometimes no answer is an answer.
“Who are we, really?” she smiled, as if a secret was disclosed upon her, making its way through her cells at 3 a.m.
“Begin to write” she listened, more relaxed in her body, she did what she was supposed to do; she listened to the creature of the void in all his nonsense and non logical times when he’d ask her to do things; to create and write and become. She listened carefully to him and to herself until there was nothing else left to be said.
Then she went back to sleep, anticipating his splendid return.
© 2015 ALIA SULTAN

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