An Empty Quiver and Twitching Fingers

Once again finding myself with an empty reserve of thoughts, yet a strange urge to write, I am at my blog once more. So with no ideas, I proceed to write, yet, why write with no ideas?

I end up sitting in front of the computer, desperately casting my eyes around the room and set my mind to roaming, with many potential subjects of literature, yet with no motivation to write upon. There, a bowl sits upon the table, empty except for where my mind attempts to fill it with something that is a revelation, and something that would awe my audiences.

Sometimes, however, a bowl is merely a bowl. No advanced metaphor for its existence other than to contain things. Empty like my mind, yet as I continue to stare upon this bowl, my mind continues to fill.

Filling this empty rice bowl of my mind, not with rice, but with the most delicious of soup's, nourishing the body, stimulating the mind to reach the apex of its mental activity, not the normal dreariness of normal thinking, but the perfect reactions of creative thinking. Certainly felt by great artists, writers, and song writers when they reach the climax of their production, this mental clarity is brought upon the reflection of the ordinary, taking from seemingly the ordinary and turning it, unbelievably, even more ordinary.

Inspiration, much like it's distant cousin knowledge, is everywhere.

Writing about a lack of writing. Interesting concept, yet one that needs working.