Once inspired

I was once inspired. Inspired as only one with so much youth can be.

Inspired by wistful words of lost dreams and unfulfilled yearning, by a language that seemed so filled with his soul that I even believed that it contained his heart. My own heart was moved long before I set eyes on the man, moved as was once only possible by music. Leafing through the pages of his books stirred longings unfamiliar in a heart so young and made me struggle to understand them.

When I finally met the man, I found him slowly nudging my thoughts and perceptions to places I'd never sought on my own. He guided me, as was his job at the time, and it was through the guise of guidance that I felt warmth seep through from him, though we never touched. His gaze and his words to me often rang in my ears by virtue of the hidden intention I read in them. I asked myself if a young woman should react to a man who expanded her mind and showed her the farther reaches of her peripheral vision.

Tension kept us apart yet together through the years. The thin, tight connection that bound us in a layered friendship even brought us to one close call amist the undertones and unspoken desire. But my eyes were closed and I didn't feel him tugging until too much time had passed.

And then one day, I fell in love with the one who inspired me, as love can be the only fitting result of inspiration.

Inspired by soft words of adoration and comfort, by a language that reached right into my own heart, piercing straight through the fortress I had built for myself. The man who had helped me believe many things years ago now made me believe in my ability to love again. One kiss on a quiet evening brought my defences to rubble, and few more words crumbled them to dust.

And then, as suddenly as it came, it was over.

Believing and loving the words of a writer is a dangerous thing. Words are such small, tenuous things, but when wielded with the chosen hand, they bear a force relentless as the tide. Writers can take your thoughts and wrap them around their little finger. They can make you believe anything you want to believe, simply because they know how to tell it to you.

Tonight, my gaze fell upon one of his books as I glanced through my bookshelf. I thought about the story that first made me see the writer in a different light, that first stirred the tempest in the teacup. For what we shared amounted to little more than a teacup. Then I opened the book and read the story again. And I remember.

I was once inspired. But never again will it find its way into my heart.