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mousmeWatching the snow fall through the window in the soft yellow glow of my curtains and the fading light of day, I'm hoping for an epiphany, one that will give me a sudden flash of insight into The Truth of It All.
Instead, there is only the mournful tolling of a church bell outside, almost muffled by the sound of my stereo playing Simon & Garfunkel.
Trying to find inspiration is like chasing dust motes in a sunbeam. The words flutter by tantalisingly, sink and swirl in the light, they sparkle and dazzle and entrance, begging to be caught and treasured, then flitting away as soon as a fingertip brushes the air nearby.
And when the sun sets, the dust settles once again on the shelves, waiting to be reawakened.
Instead, there is only the mournful tolling of a church bell outside, almost muffled by the sound of my stereo playing Simon & Garfunkel.
Trying to find inspiration is like chasing dust motes in a sunbeam. The words flutter by tantalisingly, sink and swirl in the light, they sparkle and dazzle and entrance, begging to be caught and treasured, then flitting away as soon as a fingertip brushes the air nearby.
And when the sun sets, the dust settles once again on the shelves, waiting to be reawakened.
