The only defense to a chattering mind is the calm of a quiet soul.
Which is why I write.
My words are derived from the solitude of my being.
In those moments the aimless chatter of the mind ceases momentarily.
Oh but I can only imagine the joy of basking in that quietude constantly, even in a noisy room.
The blissful feeling of always being inspired, finding stories in the most basic of objects,
A table and a chair,
The sound of the ceiling fan,
The cacophony from the street,
The colour of my nails,
The smell of my coffee,
The humming of my father,
The kitten outside my house,
The warmth of my bed,
I implore to these and to the universe around me, to be my muse.
That I may embrace the noise in my mind and churn from it, a story, a poem, a lullaby.
That in a black and white world, I see colour, beauty, love and even sadness.
That I may be lucky enough to be inspired and always inspire in return.
May I be granted the power to comb through the tresses of my surroundings only to reveal a beauty that the world might be blind to no more.