And sometimes, the inspiration arises solely from reading something I have written in the past (which felt successful, worthy, to me at least, if to no-one else).

Creativity is lonesome.  One must be one’s own harshest critic, and one’s own greatest booster, both at the same time.  It is exhausting, fulfilling all three roles simultaneously.  And so dangerously solipsistic.

Are you real?

Am I?

The recurring themes, at least, serve to reinforce the sense of self.  I know that the Greats were real; I can hold their words in my mind as proof.  And in some small way, my own words prove my reality to me.  If only in my own mind.  For now.

In the meantime, I will continue to whisper into the Void, and listen hopefully for some kind of an answer, even if it is only an echo.