Inspiration, where art thou?

I remember being a student with a big appetite for all kind of novels and poems and had this crazy habit of taking notes of random words in random places, post-its were all over the place. Sometimes I've found a connection between them and created an idea that often ended in an essay that I had to prepare for a literature course. My other love, music I always considered a manifestation of some invisible power created by the performer, transmitted to the listener who consciously or unconsciously turns this energy into another kind of power ball.

And now, a few years later I listen to some of these albums, re-read a few of those books that all seemed to hide an answer to the questions I couldn't properly define, but I don't find that certainty of uniqueness anymore. I rarely find a song, a book or a pattern or a color of a fabric to inspire in such a manner as back then. Were I too young and naive? Did I just grow old of such beautiful instances? Can't tell, really. Not so long ago I moved to another city, hoping to find That triggering element that would make me rediscover the fundamental power of the creative art, but found only superficiality so far. Is this like being a grown-up? 'I prefer not to', I'll just stick to the unconventional 'aching soul'.