Well, it was inevitable, really.
Day's almost over, and I've really got to concentrate on my work. I've got an appointment right after work, and by the time I get out of there I'm going to need to eat dinner. And then by the time I'm done with that it's going to be nine-thirty or ten o'clock, and I'm fairly certain I'm not going to feel like writing anything at that point. So, it's now or never.
But despite the fact that I've remained open all day to any form of inspiration that might happen to come to me... nothing has. So, here I am, feeling like I have to write something, but not having anything to say.
What I realize as I observe this, is the Tao of Acceptance.
I made the effort, but I can't force the issue. Inspiration is not an act of Will. All I can do, is try my best, and try to be happy with the results. And I've done that. Sure, I would've preferred to have written something meaningful, or beautiful, or profound, or poetic. But I gave it my best effort. And in the end, I still took what was inside of me, however mundane it might feel, and cast it out into the world.
And I'm satisfied with that.
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