Like Coleridge, I dreamt of a pleasure dome being commissioned in Kubla Khan, inspired, I wrote furiously but was interrupted by a mysterious caller. When the caller left, inspiration drained from my body through the sieve that was a shaky construction of ideas. Afterwards, I created a story that was far from what I originally intended and fell short of my original vision, but thanks to Coleridge, I remembered that this does not necessarily constitute failure and I was able to turn it into a workable, hopefully publishable piece like him.
This week, after completely failing at being an extrovert in several situations and interacting with other human beings, I got an ice cream cone and parked my car under the bridge. I felt stalled, uninspired, and parked literally and metaphorically, but then, I observed my surroundings. The bridge, the movement of the water, the algae covering the concrete posts rooted in mud, the floating paper that at first could have been mistaken for a bird, moved me because I saw in nature, my place within it, somewhere I belonged and yet somewhere where I could never fully understand HOW I belonged.
If you have been shaken and inspired by the sublime as I was, please check out my weekly post on Writer’s Club: