Some days I am inspired by everything and others I feel I need to search for something to move me, something worth writing about, something worth thinking about. Honestly I know that I probably encounter an equal number of inspiring and disillusioning things every day yet some days I am closed to everything and others my mind is flung open wide.
On the days when one's mind is open it is like the world is a great library and everything in it from plants to people to buildings is a book beckoning you with the promise of a story that will tease at parts of your mind you have not yet allowed yourself to experience. Every lyric to a song is not just heard but felt, every sensation not just felt but considered, every thought not just a passing fancy but something to be explored in depth. You feel artistic in this sort of awakened state-a heightened version of yourself, someone who not just walks the road to the bus stop but dances it, one who not just looks at the world around them but paints it in their minds eye, one who hears not music but individual instruments and individual notes. You feel you could compose a symphony, write a ballad, perform the whole of swan lake alone while reciting hamlet. You could write a novel that defines a generation or a poem that illuminates someones life. You have a child-like sense of the infinite possibilities the world has to offer-the limitless ability you have to offer. You feel euphoric yet in a pleasantly mellow way.
Yet there are days where even if you want inspiration you cannot find it, you cannot will yourself to find something extraordinary in the mundane world around you. You have no time for the wonders that cross your path-you want only to complete the meaningless tasks that will allow the day to be over and your already oblivious mind to slip into blissful unconsciousness. Sometimes in these state a small hopeful part still wants to be inspired, to see or feel or even just remark upon something wonderful yet our weary mind cannot stir our weary soul to dredge up something magical enough to drag us from our funk. And so the small miracles of life pass under our radar and we drag ourselves like a corpse through a meaningless day devoid of the wonder that defines life.
I think the inspiring things and our ability to notice and appreciate and experience them separates the experience of just existing from the magic of living. The mind is a wonderful, and sometimes frustrating thing; uplifting and debilitating, magical and mundane.