The past is who we are; the future, who we want to be. One forms the scars; the other fills us with the double-edged sword called hope. We strive, each and every day to survive to the coming dawn and then repeat the process again. In time the dawn no longer comes, and on that day we succumb to our own personal apocalypse. Darkness creeps in on our vision like a fog; like a lightning bolt, and takes from us the joy and pain of the ticking clock.
We are divided in our struggle to maintain, our goals pushed aside for the moment. The moment pushed aside for responsibilities. Responsibilities pushed aside due to exhaustion. Exhaustion pushed aside for a wide-screen TV or the newest game on our favorite social-media site.
I say we are divided because we know time is always passing us by. In such, our blood burns and as the days go by, we are constantly reminded of our own frail nature; our inability to do anything about it. We dream of alien landscapes, of summer days in the deep of winter and of lovers departed. We scream at the moon, the sun, the stars yet they have no ears to hear us. We do so many things which contradict the reality of it all, that in the end, only our own voice holds any true merit to the forging of what we are to be.
My blood burns, but slowly now. Experience has tempered my heart; the scars of those experiences thickened my skin. I gaze upon the world with sunken sight, the shadows more prominent in my view of the things going on around me. I am not lost, but I am not found either.
I dream of gods, of glory and of love. I dream of the nightmare crawling under my skin, escaping with cackling glee to wreck havoc upon the land, of revolution and of change. I scream at my own reflection, demanding action yet only getting a blank stare in response. Even the image is laughing silently at my ploy at breaking free of my own self damnation.
Yet even through all of these things, I still manage to find something to hold on to; to ground my thoughts and keep my feet upon the ground even while my head still floats within stormy skies.
I have found my Muse.
To me, there are few things so important than the words upon the page. The underlying creative nature of a string of thought, and of passing it on to those who seek it is a driving goal. However, to do this, I must have a reason to put it to page, and only through the possession of a Muse am I able to accomplish this. All writers seem to have something that allows them to break through the block that prevents them from creating, and for me, it is the knowledge that nobody is paying attention.
I can only hope that my words please her, my stories find some place within her and that in that place they grow until becoming something more.
Admiration maybe.
Like shadows touch across a vast and infinite space, I call to her with every key struck. It is not love, for if it were based upon such a thing then the words would flow far easier and more consistently than they do, for everybody knows love of some sort. No, this is not love.
Infatuation?
This is possible, and in such I can not deny that it could be true. What is it that triggers the thought, and places somebody above another? Is it their smile, their laughter, their mind, their hair? I do not know the answer to this, in fact, maybe it is all of these things combined. I know only that she is my Muse and in such I want my words to echo in her heart and mind. I want her to smile so much it hurts. I want her to look to see if new words have been created in her honor when she sits down at her computer.
For in the end, a Muse is in a position to be honored by the writer. He creates because of her influence upon him. He molds a lifeless page into something more. Good or bad, it is no longer blank because of her. Because of her, he is no longer a void awaiting the spark which shall set him free.
He is free.
That is why she was brought to him, to remind him of who he once was and to combine that man with what he grew into. I was so closed to everything around me that I had forgotten the man I use to be and in such, I am smiling.
To my Muse, thank you.
