I was half asleep lying there writing this lyric in my head at

“I was half asleep lying there writing this lyric in my head at about 3:30 in the morning. I woke Steve up with this idea and then we went into the living room where there was a little upright piano and finished the song. I wonder where that piano is now?” So spoke Jim Capaldi, remembering a night when the veil between dream and waking lifted, and creation descended upon him like a whisper of the divine. These words are not only about music; they are about the mystery of inspiration, the fleeting nature of moments, and the treasures that pass through our lives only once, leaving echoes that outlast the instruments that bore them.

To be half asleep is to dwell between two worlds—the conscious and the unconscious, the realm of reason and the realm of vision. In that in-between, many of the ancients believed the soul was open to the gods, to muses, to messages not born of logic but of spirit. Capaldi, stirred by the silence of the night, found words rising within him like sparks in darkness. That he rose at once to share them is a lesson: inspiration is a fragile flame, and if not tended, it vanishes into nothing.

The piano, simple and upright, was no grand instrument, yet it became the vessel of creation. How often in life do we look back and ask, as Capaldi did, “I wonder where that piano is now?” For the objects that aid us in our journeys—whether a pen, a book, or a humble instrument—fade into history, but what we created with them endures. The ancients honored their tools not for their grandeur, but for the part they played in birthing something eternal. So too must we honor the vessels of our creativity, however small, for through them flows the unseen river of art.

Consider the tale of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who dreamed the vision of “Kubla Khan” and awoke to write its verses with trembling hand. Yet he was interrupted, and the vision fled, leaving only fragments. From this we learn the same truth Capaldi embodied: when inspiration comes, it must be seized in the moment, for the muses do not linger. To wait is to risk losing forever what might have been sung, painted, or written into the world.

Capaldi’s song was not born of careful planning, but of urgency, of midnight fire. And in this, we see the nature of true creation: it comes unbidden, often at inconvenient hours, demanding to be given voice. He did not silence the call but rose, woke his companion, and together they gave form to the formless. In that act of courage—the courage to follow the whisper in the night—music was born that would ripple outward to others.

The origin of his quote lies not only in that one night but in the greater truth that life’s most meaningful works often arise unexpectedly. We may long for order, but it is in disorder, in half-sleep, in sudden sparks, that the soul often finds its song. To remember the piano is to remember that the tools and the moment may pass, but the creation lives on.

The lesson for us is this: guard the moments of inspiration as sacred. When the idea comes, write it down. When the vision stirs, act upon it. Do not say, “I will remember later,” for later often erases what dawn alone could have given. Surround yourself with simple tools—a notebook, an instrument, a brush—and be ready, for creation visits swiftly and without warning.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, let this be your practice: honor the midnight stirrings, wake for the whisper of an idea, and seize the gift before it fades. Do not scorn the humble piano, for through it a song may be born that touches eternity. And when you look back and wonder, “Where is that piano now?”—know that it lives on in the melody it gave you, and in the souls that were lifted by your courage to bring it forth. Inspiration is fleeting, but creation endures.