He woke up one day and it was like someone had switched the lights off in his head. He knew he was here, but it was hard getting there and beyond as, for some reason, all motivation was gone, because inspiration had decided to pack its bags and leave. And with no inspiration, there’s nothing, except as Dylan sang, being stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues again

Whereas a few years ago, waking up was a joy and with so much to keep him active and happy and with Julie Andrews coming into view bursting with cinematic joie de vivre and singing how the hills were alive with music, these days, he would wake up to silence- a television set flickering silently and him staring at the ceiling and wondering, What’s it all about, Alfie though his name wasn’t Alfie.


He stared at the guitar by the foot of his bed, which he hadn’t picked up in years. He didn’t see any point to it. Plus he wasn’t inspired to write about anything. The words had dried up and there was no rhyme nor reason to anything. But then just lying in bed wasn’t going to bring about change either so he forced himself to get out and go looking for inspiration.

The problem is inspiration finds you, not the other way around. Still, he went in search of inspiration, but kept walking into dead ends. Looking around, all he saw were people staring into their phones and searching for things that didn’t exist and living a life that had stalled, but with no one realising that everyone heading in the same direction leads to that empty and unfulfilling place where nowhere people are making their nowhere plans for nobody.


He thought about the life he had once led in what he knew as “the unreal real world”- the good and the not so good and when she was part of it all. She was all the inspiration he needed, but he was blind to that. He took her for granted and squandered his existence on a pocketful of mumbles that are sometimes promises and thought she’d wait for him to come around to reality. She did until she couldn’t wait anymore and so left.




He went looking for options, but the more he looked, he ended up with damaged goods. They weren’t her, and though she was still gently knocking, he never heard it and let her in. He was still looking when everything he needed he always had. In the end, there was only emptiness inside.



It was one of those infrequent walks where he had to get out and keep walking to stop himself falling deeper into his bed that he heard someone singing. It was coming from around the corner. It was a street musician. A busker. He was drawn to the song he was singing. It was one song and he kept repeating certain lines. The busker handed him a guitar. When he held it, he realised that it was his old guitar. And before he had time to think, he wasn’t only strumming his guitar, he was singing along. But the song he was singing belonged to him. It had been playing in his head for almost two years. That song blended into another and then another until a crowd had grown around him. The busker had disappeared. It was as if he was never there. That he and the busker were one. The busker was imagination and motivation coming together.



If he could be inspired, he knew that he could inspire others,  and, perhaps, help create a more honest world where one could build a positive future by facing the past no matter how difficult this might be.


No one can run away from the past. It has a habit of catching up with you, so why not embrace it, never forget who and what has come before and who you want to be with you on the next part of your life journey.




He had already decided to lose many along the way. In a moment of enlightenment, he saw these were distractions he didn’t need- those who took but never gave. And the more he thought about that time when he decided to be true to himself, he felt something taking over his being. Inspiration was taking over.


He picked up his guitar every day. Whenever he did, his fingers made up chords and beautiful melodies came together with words that were stories- real stories about where he had been, when he felt lost and how it was always her who held him together. She was magic and the truth. She was honesty and what mattered.




Maybe there’s a chance to be with her again. Believe there’s always a chance. That was all the motivation he needed to carry on. To go back to being the person with whom she fell in love. To shed the ego and the negativity. He might never be together with her again. But making her the inspiration to create everything from all those pictures suddenly dancing in his head was what he needed to start a new journey. Where would it lead. It didn’t matter. The journey had begun and he was happy to be a passenger.






It was the missionary shoes and open brown eyes

The elfin smile and refined style

The gamble to take a chance and make it work

Against all odds and selfish words




By Hans Ebert