I imagined a girl playing the piano and wrote about it. I wrote sweet melodies that resonated across the wide expanse of the room. But alas, it still didn't fill me with the inspiration to write something earth-shattering. Then I went to the track and thought about maybe writing a story about a race. As a runner, I could relate to the aches and pains. I know the feeling of anxiety at the starting line and your heart pounding in your chest. I felt more connected to this topic, but I still didn't feel anything insightful, anything worth sharing with people. The last place I went was the pond behind the school. I sat there for a while. I looked at the pond and the ducks gliding across its smooth surface. I looked over and saw some purple flowers and saw the petals of one catch in the wind and land on the pond and slowly start to sink. Then it hit me. I have my own inspiration. I began writing frantically, scratching out words and replacing them, letting the lyrical words flow from my mind into the notebook using the pen as a guide to transcribe the thoughts. When I finished I was in a calm and satisfying reverie. I went home and that evening I rewrote the piece, this time retouching it to perfection and after reading it several times, I typed and printed