I write.

I write before I realize there is a pen in my hand. Before I yank up the blinds or eat my breakfast, I write. As the clock's hands change from seven to eight to nine--oh gosh, I'm late!--I write.

Because he strolled so deliberately across the road with shadows in his eyes, I write. For who would tell his story? Surely not I, for we have never met. But he screams to be known! And so I write.

Beacuse the plump finch springs lightly on the lawn, I write, for she cannot.

Because there are pages and pages to fill and thoughts and words and laughter and emotion and expression and frustration and ugliness and humanity. Because we are, I write. Because there is and there was and there will be, I write.

And so I write. And so I always will, as long as there is time, I will write. As long as there are seasons and naked trees and clothed trees and the smells of the damp earth and the noises of the rivers... I will write. And even when these fade I will write, of what they were and how they change and what now I will write of instead. For as long as there is life there is inspiration and as long as there is inspiration will be canvases to fill and pages to flood and song to compose.

So may you take your inspiration and do what you do. Dance. Paint. Play. Create. Explore. Today is alive--that is all we can know. Tomorrow may slink up as darkness, so find in your imagination and reality the ideals and impossibilities of your dreams and let them meander out of your soul and watch them explode into sprints. And then do the same thing tomorrow. And then again. And over and over until you realize that you can never return to any sort of mediocrity. Allow yourself to become pregnant with uncontainable possibility and, for the love of it all, spill over.