The paper and the ink. The chair and the table. The music and the quiet. And my imagination.
These are my friends. They help me create beauty. They arrange my thoughts in lines that bear beauty and meaning.
I love my friends. They help me. They make me feel better.
I owe all of my work to them and them alone. Or so I thought.
Little did I know that there was another. The most member of my circle of friendship. My muse .
I have never paid eyes on her. I have no idea what she looks like. I assume she’s feminine because of her gentle and brilliant ability. She coordinates all my other friends. She is my most important friend. Without her, our creation will be nothing but incoherent ramblings of a troubled young man.
But my muse is cruel. She shows up unannounced bringing wonder and inspiration with her.
Sometimes, she comes in the most unoppurtuned moments and in the most irregular pattern. Sometimes twice in a day, other times, once in a blue moon .
She leaves without warning and takes whatever inspiration is left unharnessed with her.
Why do you do this muse? Why do you treat me so?