I am not always brimming with words and ink; my mind is not a haven of mad or brilliant ideas, teeming with horrifically imaginative musings; my characters do not always run rampant, free of burdensome reality, instead alight with my own creativity. The touch of divine inspiration was lost to me the moment I was conscious of the impermanence of youth, the loss of innocence came like the aching of bones after a long day of play, and has since persisted.

I am not leaking inspiration; sometimes it fills me up, but then when I’ve done naught with it, it fouls my insides until I am a walking corruption with a name, hands and face. 

Death manifested in a scowl; the grim reaper in a meat suit. Sometimes, that's me.

But there are days when the ghosts are at play in the graveyard of my ideas. They illuminate the shadowy corners, shoo away the worldly fears and tiresome memories to make room for something unique. The ghosts of innocence at play, their ectoplasm the silhouette of what little imagination I can conjure, looking out upon the evil of the world with a wide-eyed curiosity, upon the love with an equally transient expression. Taking it in.

Sometimes I am the Voice that persists in all things. The undying, the immortal, the inhuman reminder of the universe’s vast and unending spectrum of possibilities.

Words. Emotions. Human translation of an inherently inhuman universe. This is not our world. It is our temporary playground. Truth floods the mind, beats my heart, goes through my pitiful, undeserving blood. At last I am, if but for a few moments, the manifestation of some kind of beauty. 

Though it is not mine. It cannot be possessed.

But sometimes it flows through me. And sometimes … that is enough.