That which we call inspiration is a celebration. It’s the embodiment of a shared love — or a lost one. It takes the shape of that which our heart desires — or the shape of the void left in it.
And just as the song says, full is not heavy as empty. (Not nearly, my love.)
The void knows no barriers and so it grows with no limits. It takes the shape of a crashing bus, its metal claws closing in around my neck, ripping me out of a far from peaceful sleep. Far from peaceful, yes, but so much more soothing than the agony of being awake and facing the faint and dry thumps left behind, an echo of this aching absence.
“That’s it”, I think. That’s the last of it. This weak yet painful echo is all that’s left from the feeling I fought to keep. There is nothing to celebrate. And as I realize the raw truth around me, I experience the crushing weight of it.
The bus’ hit hard.