Inspiration, or A Naked Man

It was really nothing, you know
I was just sort of strolling through the garden
Thinking about writing

I find I think about writing so much
That by the time I finally sit down to write
All the excitement's gone out of it, you know?

Sort of like I use all the energy of it up
While it's still in my head

Anyway, that's not the story
The story is the man

The man was standing naked in the garden
Stock still, right there in the garden
And of course, it arrested me
Quite immediately
And I found myself frozen
As if I'd encountered a lion
Or some other exotic species
That might attack
If provoked

He was--

Well, I'd never think to describe a man this way
But he was quite...lovely

I mean, sort of like a statue, you know?

Very still
And very...elegant

His body created these perfect lines
And I thought to myself

Were I an artist
I would simply have to find a canvas
And begin painting him
But, of course, I've no talent for that
Only for writing
And I was without a pencil or pad
Which I suppose doesn't make me sound
Like a very good writer
Or, at least, not a very well-prepared one

I remember thinking--

I must commit this to memory
I must remember this moment exactly as it is
Although, for the life of me
I couldn't say why it seemed so important

After all, it wasn't the first nude form I'd seen
I do know about art, though I'm not an artist
And I've certainly seen--

But this was different

This was...

Something...natural

Natural and...beautiful
Truly, just...spectacular really

The man was sitting by the pond
Dipping his fingers
Just a centimeter below the surface

And it was like a Greek myth
Like Narcissus, gazing at his own beauty

And I was so worried
That I would forget it
This image

That I would fail to hold it in

Especially when the man turned around and saw me
Because the shock of it sent me running
And the next thing I knew
I was in my room

Ripping at the drawers of my desk
Looking for paper and ink and--

And it all came pouring out of me
For the first time
Intact
Just as I had wanted it

Perfectly represented on paper
And yet...

So much less

So much less than what it was

But, for writing, it was...

It was as near an experience
As one could communicate
Without actually living
That experience

But I felt sorry for my reader
Whomever it may be

Because the actual experience was--

Well...

It was quite wonderful

I don't know who the man was
Nobody seemed to know
About any man in the garden, but...

But I feel as if he unlocked something in me

Or rather, unblinded me

I feel able to see
In a way
I'd never been able to see before

To see and remember

It's a gift, you see
A great gift I've been given

And I'd like to thank him
But...

I suppose that's why authors dedicate their work

To honor the people
Who allowed them
To create it