Muse, I’m stuck in this place between thought and written word. Where ideas and stories swarm endlessly, swirling and dancing around the edges of consciousness. Teasing me with their power and potency and showing a world of infinite possibility.
And the voices, unceasing, relentless… They resound to the heavens, Muse. Over and over and over again they say:
“Write. Write. So that what is thought might become manifest. So that what is simple idea might transit into the eternal.
Write. That we may become known. And bring to life the lives we live in the shadows.
Write.”
But when I send out a quiet hand to grasp what should be, when I reach out into the murky depths to create and make real, I find nothing but the echoes of what was, and the lingering regret of creation unmade.
“Write,” they whisper, still. “Free us from this void that binds us to oblivion.”
But, Muse, these stories dance in the spaces between formlessness and blank page. And I try each day to nudge them gently onto the white, blinding stage where they might be seen by an audience that waits with bated breath. Even though that audience may be just you, Muse.
This cursed cursor flickers. Bold, upright. On, off… On, off… like a cold unabating digital heartbeat relentlessly mocking me. Daring me. Inviting me. And at once, opposing me like the most dexterous of quilled swordsmen.
Oh, Muse, what ill-omened fate is this that dooms us to this immortal dance?
What trickery will you bring to this weary mind, that we might conjure the impossible? You have traversed far and wise, Muse. You have seen the dawn of creation itself and watched everything burn to ash.
What stories shall we tell? What wonder awaits us, Muse?
I am stuck in this place between thought. And written word.
Come, Muse. Let the flames of creation burn bright.
//
© 2019 Solomon King