Inspiration comes from many sources. The frustration of writing, erasing, and rewriting the first sentence enough times that the collective words you have scrubbed out make up an essay of its own; stopping for one second to take a deep breath, only to realise you have not been breathing in, but simply mechanically inhaling all this time; looking at something you have been looking at all this time in a new way, as if a stranger took it away and put it back, and you are checking that it is the same.
I feel a restless creative force inside me, pushing behind my chest, wanting to be heard, wanting to be acknowledged. It wants to be validated. It is awakened every time I acknowledge the wonder that exists all around me; it is not a matter of finding inspiration- it is about realising it is there. Something is there. A magnificent something.