Inspiration manifests itself in strange ways. Occasionally it is a child running smack bang into me at school pick-up time, grinning and gleeful. Other times it is a persistent idea creeping, crow barring its way into my head when I meditate, insisting that I surface and write it down.
But I like the lemmings best.
Little creatures that pop up, sniff the air; alert yet eager. Unsure and tentative, they dart erratically around my mind, an impossible curiosity driving them on.
Synaesthesia, cymatic art, brainwave entrainment; unfamiliar and unpronounceable words yet a truth rattles around inside these concepts, and my inner lemmings as dogged as ever, zip in and out, trying to find the connection.