"an artist's inquiry"

It hurts to be an artist without inspiration. To see the beauty in everything, in the detail of a snail's shell or in the grand hustle of a city street but without that flicker of passion that sets your hands to work. Can you relate to the agony of an artist who sees the light youthfully play in a persons eyes but no longer has the heart to show others? It's as unbearable as a secret, which in its own nature prys itself out of you lips for its own acknowledgement. As an artist what pains me the most is that the only sincerely beautiful thing a being can naturally possess, the gift of sight, is slowly departing from my grasp. So this grave irony that has created a bitterness in my soul has yet found another chasm to plunge itself into.
As a captive's plea, I write this still hoping that it is not too late to redeem myself and to find in me that skill that I had for so long neglected. In this created world which reaches farther than the bounds of the physical, I hope that a spur of energy , inspiration perhaps borrowed from a kindred soul, may somehow find its way to me.

"a window in my mind"

When I was younger I used to go out to the middle of the field during recess. I walked there almost everyday, musing about why the sky was blue, why I couldnt run as fast as I imagined I could, and why the birds could sing and fly and I couldnt do either. I would find a place in that field where the grass grew as tall as they wanted and the dandy lions wore full manes. Then I would plop myself down onto the carpet of grass and watch as the other kids in the distance played, throwing bright red bouncy rubber balls at each other. It seemed like they were having fun, running and skipping until their faces lit up with laughter. But I hardly noticed. I was busy thinking about what it was that made the world work, what made the sun move and who it was that made the clouds look familiar. I didnt care about the fight with the "rebel" and that kid who had to get braces that year or that there was a boy that liked a girl and they were doing what the older kids did. I was thinking about life and beauty, I was trying to figure out what it meant to be hurt, what it meant to be truely happy. I was wondering why people wanted so much for the world to get along if they didnt care in the first place. But most of all I was wondering why there was nobody else sitting in the middle of the field.
Everyday the teacher on duty would walk over to the blowhorn and flip the switch. The siren would sound and the teacher would say on the mic "please report to your room numbers", "stay in a straight single file line", "be quiet until your teacher comes out". While the other kids rushed to untie their jumpropes and to get all the balls and put them into the buckets, I slowly strolled to my line. I dont remember anymore what it was that I sung but I know that as I walked over to the blacktop, I would softly sing a song. When I think about it now, the only thing I remember is how sad it sounded.
Then there was this one day that changed my entire world. The bell had just rung and I was on my walk to the field. I passed by my teacher on her way out for yard duty and I waved and whispered "hi". As soon as had found my place out on the field I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was my teacher. For the first time in my life, I had been asked a question that didn't need a reply. She asked what it was that I was doing out there but without waiting for my answer, she turned right around and walked away.
That day I had been offered something and I made a trade. When I look back on it now, I'm glad for making that decision but I can't help but wonder what it was that I had traded away. Sometimes there are glimpses of before, sometimes you can see me staring out the window at nothing but the wind caressing a tree or humming a tune that really has no end. Theres always someone around, quick to tap my shoulder and to tell me that Im staring off into space. But I know that.