Inspiration In All Places

My problem: I get an idea, and before I’ve even attempted it, I talk myself out of it.

            It’s probably been done before: True, it likely has. Has it been done by you though?

            It’s stupid, no one will like it: No one? That’s a lot of ground to cover, isn’t it?

            It won’t be perfect: You’re right. It won’t, because it can never be perfect.

The idea for this blog hit me when I was supposed to be writing, but instead, found myself in the black hole that is You Tube. (Also see: Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, or even Google Search.) What I’m getting at is this: When it’s time to sit down and write, suddenly anything can become entertaining.  Cat videos ü Makeup Tutorials üWhat I eat in a day üIt gets pretty ridiculous, quickly. (Reasons, besides the obvious that this is a waste of time: My cats are cuter than any on the internet, I barely wear makeup, and I’m assuming it’s some sort of food, like any normal human would eat.)

It’s not that I don’t want to do it. Write. I do. I just don’t think I can do it justice. My grand ideas suddenly become mediocre and I’ve already deemed myself unworthy before the first letter hits the page.

Words are intimidating. Or in my case, the lack of them is intimidating. That bright white, close to blinding, far too empty Word Document (yes, I capitalize it, because it is that important and daunting, much like a final boss in a video game).

I was watching a music video of a song that had come up several times on my Pandora station, and it hit me how far inspiration can reach. Was this the best song I’d ever heard? No. Did it have an effect on me? Yes, for whatever reason it did. (I’m not getting into the justification of it. Just trust me when I say, that at the time, it affected me.)

I was prepared. I knew what I was going to do. I had my own story to tell. It wasn’t the lyrics in this case, but the visuals, the actual video itself.  I don’t know what the artist’s story was. It didn’t seem clear to me (probably drugs), but there was something there. And I was going to write it. Wasn’t I?

With my best intentions, the answer is Yes.

I failed myself five minutes later, when I was staring at the aforementioned Word Document, and my parasitic worry took over. What if people found the idea stupid? Or worse, what if they found the song stupid? What if they couldn’t understand what I saw in it in the first place? What if, my taste in music turned people off, and they refused to read another thing I wrote ever?

First off, I’m not going to flatter myself. I’m not that powerful: to turn droves of people off with one post? Who do I think I am?

Secondly, who cares? All of these questions didn’t need to be answered, and really didn’t even need to be explored, or brought up in the first place.

I’m not going to pretend it’s the best or most clever idea.

The most important thing is that it hasn’t been done by me.

My weakest point is no follow through. And I’m ending that cycle now.

Another long night and sleep had eluded her. Lyla sat in bed, cross legged. Her body ached, and the four walls of her bedroom no longer felt safe. Disappear, she whispered, wishing for a moment that it was only her in the world. The television at the side of her bed, alive with static, swallowed her words, camouflaging them in the gray, and went black. Silence blanketed the room and an ear popping pulse took over. The door of her bedroom was closed, but the house rumbled with the buzz of her roommates and friends. The television came alive in a quick flicker, the tail end of a used car commercial. “Here, you get exactly what you want,” said the man, with a wink. The volume reached max, and a din of music took over.  Lyla inhaled, and held the breath in the pit of her stomach, willing the silence to return. The room was too small, claustrophobic, and her body vibrated with noise and panic.  Across the room, the curtains fluttered, and streams of light flickered through. The beige walls were bare, and bulged with moisture, slowly becoming marred in cracks as she stared at them. She pushed herself from bed, and crossed the room, her heartbeat a hammer in her chest.

The hallway light was on, although dim and she wrestled with the door for a moment, refusing to remove the sweatshirt she’d tucked beneath it the day before. She looked to the ceiling, and realized the cracks were ripping through the house. The palm of her hand was pressed to the hallway wall, a guide as she walked its length, not taking her eyes off the trailing crack. It stopped at the kitchen’s edge, and she dropped her gaze. A throng of people hovered near the kitchen, the heat of the day obvious with the cluster of bodies. Lyla pushed her way through, to arrive at the its center. The refrigerator was askew, and one side had been painted aqua, the image of a squid drawn on in thick black lines. On the ceiling, the erosion had gathered and begun to eat a hole, revealing blue sky and heavy clouds. The kitchen came alive with movement, every item lifting and tilting towards it like a magnet. Lyla felt the uncomfortable shift as the house began to unearth itself. An image of the television, and the used car salesman flashed in her mind, the toothy grin of the man seared behind her eyes. She pushed herself through the screened door, letting it slam in the frame behind her, her gaze locked on the floating bodies of her friends being gently tugged through the gaping hole. They were complacent, their bodies relaxed as if they’d known their purpose was sacrifice. 

Every nerve in her body ached to run, but Lyla stood in place, her feet planted firmly in the gravel. Her pores sucked up the humidity and her skin beaded with sweat. “Here, you get exactly what you want,” came the voice from the unplugged television, before it shattered midair. Lyla spun on her heel, and moved forward several feet. The house, at her back had ripped from the ground, severed cleanly from the foundation, levitating around her. She stared in awe as it scattered, without making a sound, the contents of her world spilling like a bag of sugar. It dissolved in the air, turning into a fine mist that pricked her skin and bounced off in waves. Lyla pushed herself forward, each step steady and traveled through the alley, aware that the long line of fence was still firmly in place. The ground beneath her was motionless, but an old car began to shiver and rise into the air. It rocked in place for a moment, but was quickly slung upwards and disappeared. Everything around her burst and popped into tiny shards, and were quickly absorbed by something above. The buzz of the city had dispersed, and Lyla stood alone, at the end of the neighborhood. She was standing amongst nothing, fog rising from the ground. The entire neighborhood leveled, and the city beyond had begun to fracture. Lyla sat to the ground, her knees beneath her, and she pushed her face to the sky. The slightest hint of moisture hung in the air, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the downpour. “What you want,” said the man from the television, his voice a staccato drop from above. 

Below is the video I got the idea from. For this one particular, its not the words that are important, but the visuals, so if you don't like it, just mute and enjoy!