Conspiring to inspire

There is something about inspiration that makes you want to act on it. Why should some powerful thought entice you to do something you would not do on a normally lethargic day? It defies Einstein's body of work that the amount of Energy in you (E) should rise, when your mass (M) remains just the same amount as to continue to make you look like an undernourished twig. But when you do get an inspired thought, you want a mark of it to be left in the annals of history. There is something dastardly about how inspiration can almost enslave you, and make you do its bidding.

But thank heavens that it does! Or the world would be a dried up coffee mug with sugar granules clinging on to the sticky cup-bottom like a starfish with attachment issues with its aquarium wall. Ah the satisfaction of making up a laboured metaphor that could have been left unconcocted in a less gregarious frame of mind.

Must keep writing....before the system realises how far it has allowed itself to snooze, and be back to action stations to thwart me. The urge to write and create is oozing from the pores, crying to be sustained till actual thoughts worth sharing strike me. But till such ideas do make themselves known to me, I must blather nonetheless, in the true spirit of one who is enslaved by a surge of inspirational energy.

What brought this on? Oh I happened to read a funny blog. It pains me to feel that this upsurge may be an offshoot of envy. Such a vice should not have been designed to spawn such a positive phenomenon as inspiration (incidentally does that rob inspiration of its positive connotations? When Ravana's Mom spawned the demon-child, did her maternal glory get diminished...wait, so that isn't fair that just because her baby was evil, she should be robbed of her due glory as a Mother. WAIT. I just argued the opposite case for which I started to make this point. Yeesh.)

Ok there is apparently a cure for the unchecked inspiration surge. You really have to hit rock-bottom, or rather stratosphere, to cease the momentum. This can be achieved by letting yourself run wild till you argue against your own point. Threat neutralised.

Venting air

The sighing hands
that never wanted to deserve rest
ceased to be stubborn,
and assumed a daze with zest.

Trembling in response
to the cold numbness of calm,
they knew how it felt
to be a balm.

Strident cogs rolled into themselves.
They made things happen.
When they shrouded themselves with brake fluid,
He didn't know what then.

Mechanics were always others;
they worked their own steam.
Just the sense of arms
did not mean he was to catch a moonbeam.

In the throes of hypoxia,
the mind paved way for a honeymoon.
Airlessness is not always at hand,
but you live inside an air-vent.

His quest for a niche
sharpened his thirst for the globe.
As she drew to a close,
shreds of yes-men were installed in his lobe.