Shivering, I listened to the wind blow past me as I sat on my perch. There had been others earlier, but they, as always, disseminated.
I waited. Waited for the time when another would come. Another chance to feel the rush. To conceive ideas from the flow of the waves that came through me. Having the idea was the first step. From there, if it wanted to risk life, the idea would have to go through endless analyses, full of poking and prodding, from the unfeeling, uncaring, non-creative entity that we all fell before. I had gone through that process before. It took only one attempt before I had my fill. Now, I simply sold the ideas to the others. The ones without the gift. They would be the ones who would bring it to fruition. And when they did, the Gifted would not be mentioned.
We would only be remembered as a forlorn smudge on the path. Slowly selling our minds to live another day.
To conceive just one more time.