I look at myself in the mirror.
"I am uninspired," I say. "I cannot write."
My reflection stares back at me, quizzical. "Of course you can write! You've got two hands and a keyboard, fingers and a pen, right?"
I roll my eyes. "Fine. I have nothing to write about."
My reflection sighs, looks around. "You have everything to write about." Whispering, she leans closer, as if privy to some cosmic secret. "Look around."
The shifting light of an approaching storm.
The stark contrast of green leaf against grey sky.
Coffee-the taste, the smell, the feel.
The cup from which said coffee is enjoyed.
Another shift in light. Another movement of grey on grey.
Out of the window I see changing season and patterns in the wind.
Out the window.
My kitchen window.
Even that is a source of inspiration.
If only I open my eyes...
...and look around.
I look at myself in the mirror.
"I am uninspired," I say. "I cannot write."
My reflection stares back at me, quizzical. "Of course you can write! You've got two hands and a keyboard, fingers and a pen, right?"
I roll my eyes. "Fine. I have nothing to write about."
My reflection sighs, looks around. "You have everything to write about." Whispering, she leans closer, as if privy to some cosmic secret. "Look around."
The shifting light of an approaching storm.
The stark contrast of green leaf against grey sky.
Coffee-the taste, the smell, the feel.
The cup from which said coffee is enjoyed.
Another shift in light. Another movement of grey on grey.
Out of the window I see changing season and patterns in the wind.
Out the window.
My kitchen window.
Even that is a source of inspiration.
If only I open my eyes...
...and look around. 
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