inspiration is overrated anyway.

 “My god, no more of this. No more of this uncertain cry for something more, just fucking do something. Like that moment earlier this afternoon, watching the sudden downpour from the safety of a shoe store, and then deciding to fuck it, walk outside and in the time of those two seconds becoming horribly drenched, wet everywhere and laughing laughing as I duck into the McDonalds one door over, catching the eye of an Asian woman, disapproval evident in her empty expression but inside I’m delighted, still, for misunderstanding nature, for misunderstanding the rain but it’s just not practical then to run outside and dance in the downpour, without an umbrella but with my purse heavy with my cameras and books and technology and empty words.

No more of this grabbing at empty lines and sentiments and sentimentality. Needing “inspiration.” This isn’t about inspiration, this isn’t about waiting for the right moment or the right time but jumping into the rain wet and cold and unexpected fast in rivers on bare skin and soaking through cotton. This is impulsive and elation and freedom and the thrill and life delicious on my tongue like unexpected orange bites in dark chocolate, like green tea scented soap or silk covers against skin flushed from a shower, against unrealistic expectations and desires that clench at thin air, that should be transformed into nothing more than life and life itself.”

by tweexcore