Dear Inspiration,

Remember me? We were homies once; okay, maybe homies isn't the right word, but since you've left me I've had trouble coming up with synonyms for what I need to communicate. That's what you gave to our relationship, Inspiration: communication. I could never express myself to anyone else. I'd sit in a desk and stare at the rotted oak in front of me, with things like Steve 3s Stacy and Fuck you etched into it. Nobody else would notice me as I traced the words with the lining of my thumbnail, glancing listlessly up at the clock while it ticked on, apathetic.

I remember those horrible days, sitting isolated at school. None of the kiddies ever wanted to play with the new girl, the military brat. Some days I'd have to clench my stomach and lean in a little bit to keep the sting of loneliness from reaching my throat and choking me to death. But then you'd reach out and pat my hair; you'd seep into my mind and whisper the words I needed to hear.

We didn't get along perfectly, of course: in fact a lot of the time you demanded my attention at the worst time possible. I'd be in gym, staring blankly at the wall, trying not to get hit in the face with a volleyball whenever one came near. I'd spot some girl bending down to stretch, admiring the curve of her spine as she dipped into some sort of jock-chick-yoga pose, and you'd tap my shoulder impatiently. You were so demanding! You didn't care whether I had a pen on me or not. You pressured me into jotting notes on my skin when you knew my mom would kill me if she found out.

Still, all those little pin-pricks of irritation were worth it for those rare nights when you'd crawl into my room, just before I fell asleep. When I couldn't think of anything, and my diary lay beside me with a taunting smirk, burning the message into me that I'd never have anything to write about, anything to recall my high school years by. Then, all of a sudden, you'd press your lips against mine, and whisper one single word against them: eureka! I'd grab the diary and a pen and we'd spoon, all night, sometimes until I dozed off with the pen in my hand. You didn't mind. The events of the night would be foggy, of course, but then I'd glance over at the pages you'd left me and it would all come flooding back. Those feelings of triumph, the joy of conquering sleep for a rebellious display of passion.

Then, slowly, we began to drift apart—I know, I know, I got too clingy. I demanded so much more of you. No more lazy, sprawling journal entries for us: it was time to get serious. It was time to take it to the next level—a novel. You felt bullied, and I got defensive. I thought we would be great if you would just stop holding us back! So you became a recluse. Oh, you'd talk to me every once in awhile—peek in my dorm room, see how things were going. You'd politely help me sort out whatever drama I'd written myself into, as best as you could anyway. But lately…you've just been so distant. I'm not sure where we're going anymore. But I do know this:

I love you.

I love you, Inspiration, and I don't want to lose you. You've stood by me when I felt I would wither away in my own skin and die a useless pile of bones. I've felt like nothing and you've proved me wrong—you showed me I was wrong by waving those pages in front of my face. I want to be together always, not just while I'm young, not just to have a fun fling to talk about when I get older, shooting the breeze in a corporate office. So please, please, come back to me, show me all that I can be, let me show you off like the prize you are!

Your servant,

A. Writer