But she’s like that: spontaneous, unpredictable, capricious, vital.
She came to me, unexpectedly, one of those fine warm mornings in the late autumn.
I already knew of her, I had seen her before, long before; I had felt her by my side, I had dreamt about her, but she had always ignored me. However, now all was different, she looked for me any time, she met me everywhere, she haunted me, she hounded me, she loved me. And I let myself be loved.
She was with me a week, maybe ten days, during which we created great things. I told her my ideas, my projects, my interests, and she helped me to write them, she almost dictated the words to me, she put wings to my fingers on the keyboard, she filled with spirit my tales, and with life my characters.
One night, without any reasons, she suddenly left me when I most needed her; go figure why! Only she must know… or maybe not: female after all, not fond of reasons, least of all explanations. Since then, I haven’t seen her again. Since then, I haven’t written anything passable. The ideas I had didn’t prosper, and starved.
Will she ever feel a bit guilty, have some remorse? No, it won’t happen. Inspiration is like that: spontaneous, unpredictable, capricious, vital…