What is the writer without her inspiration? She has wings and can fly, but has not figured out where she wants to land. She soars through the sky, embracing gusts of wind and examining the Earth below her. She flies over the ocean. Sapphire blue mixed with emerald green, treasured, coveted water that hosts endless parades of colors. She flies over the forest. Green pokey, peaks of trees reach up towards her, begging her to stay.

She stares at her notebook, resting her head in her hands and thinking why bother? She picks up her mug and gulps down the milky, brown coffee in an attempt to silence her headache.

If you’ve ever been in the winter of your life...

You’ve cried while making a wish. You’ve had these dreams that you reached out to, like Gatsby reaching out to his green light. There’s this brilliance on the horizon that you just can’t seem to grasp. You extend your hand, try and will the light to come to you, but it never does.

Well I’ve been out there. I’ve tried.

I’ve chased down shooting stars and watched them burn into oblivion at least a thousand times. There’s a brief moment when gold and silver come together to make fireworks in the sky. In all your life you’d never seen something so bright and then, like ink on a page, or an old photograph, the vibrance fades away.