Friday, December 1


I used to be a writer. In fact, I used to be a damn good writer. I'd sit down with determination, attentive and focused, and that'd be it. I'd place my fingers gently on the key pattern commonly noted as Home Row, and I'd let them fly. I'd let the words pour out of my fingertips at a rate faster than I could keep up in my mind, and I'd wander in thought. I'd float around the piece, surrounding each paragraph with notes to a million tiny references to my life. I'd watch, out of my own mind and body, until it was finished. Then I'd read it. I can't express the kind of pride and emotion one can absorb from the proofreading of a truly good piece of material and know that, however surreal it had seemed, those words had dripped from the same ten fingertips you have known and used for the entirety of your existence. It's like discovering a part of you you never knew existed.

Millions of people feel this way about millions of things. Anyone who creates is entitled to that overwhelming sense of self-importance and worth. Artists, musicians, athletes... computer programmers. It's all you. It's your day, your hour, your spotlight. Your muse.

Unfortunately, my muse is ill. She has been neglected, malnourished and mistreated. I am forever torn by guilt at the realization that I myself did this to her. Trivial unimportant things became too important, took too much time. I didn't feed her. I didn't attend to her.

Eventually I stopped thinking about her all together. It's been roughly 18 months since I've unchained the choke collar from around her neck and let her run free in the backyard of my mind. Now, I'm not sure I trust her. Things have changed a lot since she has been here. The grass is browning, the skies are dark, the rivers dry, the wildlife savage. There is no guarantee that Muse will be safe.

And still, is she safe? Is she thriving locked up and caged in the basement of my consciousness?

Am I to remedy the problem by freeing her or letting her die? Which would be the humane way? I loved Muse, once. We were like the child and puppy at the park who grow up and grow old and fade in their intense love for one another. I am guilty. I have betrayed the trust of my muse though she has remained loyal.

I am sorry, Muse. I am lost without you to tell me what to do.

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