To fill a page with words, useful words, is to find reverb deep down in the soul. It’s to strum that one singular note that makes creation sing along. And to face the terrifying darkness and write upon it the Light is to participate in the most sacred of work. It is a work I’d like to do.
But it’s not so easy. Shy, elusive inspiration. Sometimes it is nowhere to be found. Creativity can neither be captured in time nor wrangled to a list. It evades any attempt to harness it, resists any attempt at force. Instead it can only be coaxed out, patiently drawn from hiding, the bullies of agenda and clock and past and future sent indefinitely away. It’s painstaking work. And all can be lost in an instant with one move, one move that’s a hair too quick or a nudge too forceful. And the coaxing must begin all over again.
I’ve no patience for it tonight, though for it I am so hungry. I am too busy to play its games. I miss it and its intoxicating highs. But it makes me stop too long. It requires too much. Boredom is too expensive to indulge so freely. To cosset this muse is to barter and steal, to trade necessities like sleep and work. I cannot always make the sacrifice. So, like a peevish child, the muse is silent. And I sit before a blinding emptiness, nursing my bad temper at these games I’m made to play. Damn the game. Damn the art. Damn the words and the stupid page.
Hide if you want. Or come and find me, if you dare.