I haven’t been able to write lately. That isn’t to say I have been lacking the time or desire, but I’m finding everything I write rather bland. It is toast-writing. White-toast-writing.

My mind has narrowed down what I think to be the issue, though the mind is a deceitful thing so I don’t know whether I should trust it. Anyway, I feel as an ancient Greek when I say that I need a muse. Strange then that I’m not sure I still believe in such a thing. Or perhaps it is that many writers’ muses are simply their own desires.

I am finding myself more in need of the traditional muse. Of love, requited or not. But my heart is fallow. It simply is.

Existence is not enough for my heart to pour forth. Its ground has  become tepid clay. Indeed, it is the wrong element even tepidity aside. When I love, my heart is that bygone element — who’s mystery and magic has been so blotted out by the rise of science — which grips the passionate: fire.

That seems fitting as my heart seems to soar on summoned wings of flame when I love. My spirit is imbued with the ancient arts, laughing in the face of physics and chemistry.

The difficulty is that no muse will do. I cannot love just anyone. I cannot simply force my heart to crack the ribs caging it. My heart is wild and reckless. Not that I would have it any other way, — for while it may be injured more often, so too has it grown strong by means of running and fighting — but it makes it hard to predict at all times. And quite impossible to force into submission.

Would that even Melpomene come and dwell with me…


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