Someone had once explained to me that if I had let my muse down, he would eventually pass away. I fearfully sought him out only to discover he was terribly frightened that I had given up on him … and it almost feels as though I had. As authors and poets; we must do ourselves a duty and make time out of every single day to scribe. When I don’t adhere to my truest calling, a larger part of myself feels absent, cold, and dead. The dust blows across the imagined landscapes I built so vehemently—the buildings fill up with dying dreams—the grasses overgrow. It almost looks like the great abandoned beauties of America, and that alone is a crime.
“Where is this promise of life”—voices shout across the abandoned yard—“we have yet to see it!” They form masses in the center of the town and begin to shout in synchronicity. It’s almost like a revolution of a reverie, or something out of the pages of pure madness as visited by you.
There is pain within. The tears rain down in a sad, slow silence and the backdrop of darkness eases o’er a colorful afternoon. A fresh breeze carries the pomander of a lingering summer’s kiss across the doorstep and a record in your head begins to play: “It is time” whispers a disembodied voice; “beyond, the birth of color.”
Of course, the art soon follows and words are pieced together like a puzzle falling into place. Ten minutes turns into four hours of pure uninterrupted reconstruction of a world you are solely responsible of.
When soon the night should follow; where to next if not much of the same? The muse adheres to the motion of the river and you abruptly follow. Downstream they race without vision of what’s ahead. Crossroads, you assume. Without fear you’re moving faster and holding your breath. Is it death that fascinates you? With that absence of fear, are you able to reach further than most?
Then why do you turn away from what you love the most?