On Minding The Gaps

There she sat . . still . . waiting for inspiration to either strike her soul, or strike her dead. Either way, something would change.

Then again, there she sat.

Still.

Waiting.

Nothing.

Nothing but gaps in the fabric of time and space – gaps in the fabric she’d once so carefully knit to cover over her world and keep it in balance.

Holes, actually – holes so big she could climb through them, if only she could climb through them.

But alas, climbing wasn’t on her mind that day.

And so she sat, and she waited.

And while she waited, her mind wandered in and out of the gaps. It poked itself into pockets and around corners, looking for lost threads that might reconnect her to all the people and ideas that had disappeared from her life . . and left only holes . . gaps in her picture of the world . . gaps in the cosmic fabric she wrapped round herself to stay warm at night.

And something about all that disappearing made her feel a little too vulnerable. And the vulnerability was almost stifling. So she pulled the fabric ever more tightly over her shoulders, and she sat . . and she waited.

And in the waiting, she listened for a sign. Surely she would hear the inspiration as it rose through her . . when it rose through her. It must. It used to be right where she needed it. She used to be able to count on it to lift her above the messiness of her life’s uncertainties.

But that was when the fabric of her world was newer . . before the wearing of it and the wearing out of it created gaps. And gaps, being rather vacuous, transmitted far more echo than inspiration. And strain though she might for the sound of an answer, only echoey static reached her senses.

And so she sat, and she waited.

And she wondered if perhaps the gaps were not gaps at all, but only lapses in her imagination. Perhaps in letting go to make room for the present, she’d over-compensated and lost touch with some important part of her past. But nothing from back then came to mind. Of course, it’s hard to resurrect what you can’t remember.

Maybe the gaps were a sort of self-inflicted purgatory for lost memories – or lost dreams.  Maybe, if she just concentrated a little harder, she could re-inspire her imagination and fill in the gaps with stronger, more brilliantly colored threads. But why bother? Threads break . . Colors fade . . just like dreams . . and just like memories.

And so she sat, and she waited.

And she wished with all her might that something magically inspired . . something she would recognize as hers alone . . might enter her inner world and shift it ever so slightly . . if only just for a moment . . or, forever.

Then again, maybe she was thinking too much. She did that on occasion.

Maybe if she just sat . . still . . and waited.

And so, there she sat . . still . . waiting for inspiration to strike.

While, in the other corner of her world . . the corner she’d long ago forgotten . . Inspiration anxiously paced the empty halls . . poking its head in and out of the gaps . . waiting for a sign that she was finally starting to awaken.

Tagged as: change, gaps, inspiration, picture of the world