I was asked not long ago what inspires me. I was about to fall back on my usual answer to everything, “I don’t know,” when I stopped, and thought a bit.
What really does inspire me? There’s gotta be something.
I thought what inspires me to write. Fiction, poetry, music, anything. Fitting the words, the pieces, together, to make something beautiful, brutal, ugly, truthful, or just plain bad. What makes me want to do that? What makes me enter the house coldly on a dark evening with orange lights in my head, the words waiting inside me?
What inspires me?
I answered the question. “I think darkness inspires me. Darkness and it’s interaction with light. Reflections, shadows, echoes, impossibilities, chances. Certain places. Atmosphere. Memories. Feelings.”
I left the brief conversation feeling strange with the new knowledge about myself. I wouldn’t have thought I’d be inspired by darkness itself, though it has to be said it is a dark inspiration. Perhaps things that mirror what I feel inside, perfect analogies (or not so perfect) strike a chord, however minor it may be, and gasp for an outlet.
I wouldn’t say darkness is the only thing that inspires me. There is always more to find out about yourself, the way you think. It’s interesting.
Now I will pass on the question. What inspires you?