In Search of Inspiration

Inspiration huddles, shivering behind a dumpster in an alleyway across the street from a café, the yellow light shining through the panes into pools of light on the cobblestone street.  People hurry by, heads bowed against the cold, hands thrust deep into pockets.  The heartening aroma of baked bread and cinnamon drift out to the street mixed in with the smell of brewed coffee.  The scent wafts across the street where it reaches Inspiration.
Inside, a person in a plaid shirt, with sneakers on his feet and an ink stain on his finger, stares through glasses at his notebook.  He drinks from a red mug and as he puts it down on the white saucer, a drop of coffee spills onto it.  He stares quizzically at the abrupt end to the loopy curves and slants on the blue lined page.  To where had his Inspiration fled?
To the alley across the street, where Inspiration’s blue curlicues and loops were made even bluer by the cold as they quivered among the dots of the i’s and the crosses of the t’s.
Happy was Inspiration’s life as he flitted among people, jumping for a sunrise or from the waves of a lake, lapping at the shore.  Yes, happy was Inspiration.  Happy that is until someone removed a pen and put it to paper.  And then, Inspiration’s curves, lines, and loops were committed to paper, chained to the words, limited to the nouns and the verbs, to the adjectives and the adverbs.  The occasional interjection or onomonopia helped a bit, but what Inspiration dreaded, above all, was the punctuation.
Inspiration hated being limited to phrases and clauses.  Inspiration loved to run on and on, but he was always cut off by a tripping comma or the sudden punch of a period.
And so, Inspiration hid from the man with the glasses and the ink stain.  He hid from the student, hands poised above the computer keyboard.  He hid from the poet, pencil waiting to strike the pad, and from the artist, paintbrush primed above the canvas.  He hid from the musician, hands suspended above the piano, from the actor as he entered on stage, and from the dancer, limbs in position before the first note of music.

He who finds his Inspiration commits him.  He takes Inspiration and fixes him with nouns and verbs, molds him with adjectives and adverbs.  Sometimes, there is the occasional interjection or onomonopia, and that helps a bit, but then there is always punctuation, sprinkled on at the end.  Committed Inspirations hardly ever resemble the Inspiration that fluttered free.  His face is contorted by prepositions and his limbs are twisted by conjunctions, and his eyes well up with spelling errors.  Then, he who found his Inspiration rushes off to show to others the Inspiration that he committed to paper, or to canvas, to music, or to scene, or to dance.  He proudly displays the Inspiration that he committed but forgets the Inspiration that he found running free.
And so Inspiration hides.