From where does inspiration come?

Is it because we admire and covet certain qualities found in others? Or perhaps we discover something so incredibly alien that we naturally desire to adopt it. Or we come across a raw idea so rich with potential that we, in our madness, take it on, determined to tame it, turn it into our own.

Inspiration is a fuel that I wastefully burn, often letting dreams dissolve with the coming day instead of writing them down. Sometimes I fear I will ruin them, like trampling through virginal snow with muddy boots. How can my words embody these divinations? I'd rather leave them untouched, unfulfilled, perfect in their young and tragic death.

There is, however, another option, that faces me like an insurmountable wall, a wall I've been approaching since I found epics in novels and films that thrilled me in my youth. Instead of giving up on myself prematurely, I could improve my craft, train and study until fully prepared to take on the task. Perhaps scaling this wall will allow me to land, barefoot and silent in the field of clean, frothy snow. And in my writing, I would only be leaving an elegant imprint of my soul to be seen.

Bloody hell. I'm going to be an English major, aren't I.