Sometimes, a gentle rain can be my muse.
The sound—as it hits the roof of my car, silently drawing tear stained trails down the windows. The low thunder pushing the normal sounds of the city far below, turning the world outside into a silent movie.
Sometimes, a gentle rain is all I need for that moment to arrive.
I was beating my head against a wall this morning, failing at every attempt at wit or aspiration in my words. Distractions didn’t help, they simply lived up to their name.
So I stepped out into the rain.
I neither lingered nor ran. I simply lit a cigarette and walked to my car, with sky speckled glasses.
I wasn’t in search of a warm, dry refuge.
I was in search of my muse.
A tangle of smoke, a tear drop of rain and perhaps a small spark that I might turn into a fire.
Inspiration comes from anywhere, if you let it.