The Uninspired Muse

"I am beset upon mine Muse. One has not only an inspired faith in inspiration, et al, but to mine own Muse I am not in abeyance."

The young man walked angrily about the room, lightly gesturing to his desk where upon sat a stack of bare parchments, his quill and ink. Sputtering candles burned low while drips of costly rosemary-scented beeswax ran onto costlier English Oak.

"Mayhap, the Muse has sought me out, hastening to reason. If I but call out and tell it, then re-tell it again?" He threw his head back, yelled peevishly, "I have a need of thee, Muse!" Echos bounced round the overly dark room, reverberated in his own ears.

He turned then stepped once again across the woolen fibers of the thick carpeting beneath his hard-tapping soles, the pile of the Aubusson hushing the sound of his pace. When he reached the far wall, once again he did turn about, repeating the pace to the hearth and fire.

"Tis a fool I am! Mine thoughts grasp at a wisp of some...thing. But I know-est not mine own heart how an pursue to write happy, this thing without the Muse!"

He stopped, spun about the room and angrily bore his stare to the gilded mirror above the mantle, pointing an ink-stained fingertip at his reflection. Mouse-brown hair plowed in uncertain rows beleaguered his reflections both inner and outer.

"Know thou this, Muse! By diligent discovery I shall seek thee out! Fear me not, I am the receptor of your pleasure! Through this, mine humble bosom, shall thine inspired treasures flow. Rather had I lose the battle than the honor of thee." He pounded tight fists against his breast, cold hands met the warm silk of his evening finery. He felt the filigreed gold cuff-links in reassurance of past successes. A small black spot shown in stark contrast to the crisp whiteness which was his sleeve. He sniffed once, twice, thrice in abhorrence of the sooty smudge, turning down the corners of his thin lips.

He lowered his ink-stained fingertips, still glaring brusquely into his own eyes. His hair, unkempt, his face pale, circles dark beneath his eyes appearing like dark rings round the far-off moon. Sleepless nights spirited his thoughts. His ghostly apparition stared back, mute and silent. One blink, then another as he slowly became yet again focused on his torment.

"Hast thou been but a tease?" His head lowered, chin on chest, hands in wildly tangled hair and strode away from the reflection. Violent whispers followed in his wake like the rain follows the storm cloud. Hearty dust motes stirred beneath his shoes, whirling and dancing as though at a gay ball, patterns untraced and un-noticed.

He began his pace anew. Frantic begging whispers flew from twixt his lips as distress was wont when a man stood lonely, uninspired, beaten. Square shoulders sagged in defeat. Pity at his own depravity forced another baleful stare at his reflection, his ire roused; poking and prodding his inner angst. Pride charged to the fore and a spark lit his eyes.

"What art thou that dost grumble there in mine conscience? Shouldst I go to mine cold bed and warm thee, Muse? Truly, wilt thou deny me? I must act upon the wandering eye, truly I want not to revoke thy gift of persuasion." The shrillness of his hearty yell bounced upon the bric-a-brac, echoes deigned to condescend him with his own vocalization.

He paused a moment, once again in contemplation of his reflection. His voice, pleadingly quivered forth as hesitant as a prayer loosed in a strong gale.

"Thou must cure me, for all occasions do inform against me in mine quest. My joys will ne'er begin until I am provoked to produce the poet to thine receptor, Muse. For I, mine eyes will rivet to this unremarked visage and yet again be without recompense?" His arm lifted stonily, fingers clenched round a square chin and jaw.

He sighed loudly, turned to his desk and once again sat behind the delicately carved piece of furniture. He picked up quill and parchment, then halted, poised to begin. His breath stirred the heavy vellum only slightly as it moved forth from twixt those thin, cold lips.

"I am made ready. Yea, from the table of my memory, wild and whirling words, offensive in their simplicity, dost flow a stream, but uninspired! Mine ruse is as a happy prologue to mine quest to bring fire to the blood of ordinary men. What say thee, Muse?"

The darkened room threw shadowed corners behind velvet draperies, flickering candle and licking flames lent odd humors against the purity of the pristine white walls. Quill still poised at the point of meeting parchment, his fingers trembled but to no avail.

"I bid every noise, every thought, every something pray, be still! I should fear thee, Muse, for the inconstant breath thou dost exhale over mine soul. Thou should weep-est, for like the harlot thou dost encourage until the point of coin be barren. Fie! I laugh to think you confess'd a mistake, convenient though as may be in mine abandonment."

He sat up straighter then, behind his massive desk, looked to the cherubic carvings in the woodwork as if seeing them for the first time. He made tidy the parchment and blotter, the quill and ink. Warily he stood, silently placing his seat just so. Having drawn the velvet drape and made ready his departure, he addressed his reflection in passing.

"Cheer thy spirit, for words more sweet and beauteous shall arise from this ruinous plot, an the morn is up and bright shall see the Muse ready in offering. Fear it not!" He threw a careless wink into the retreating form of his own madness.

He carried his candle from the hearth to the door, determined to take his leave. Softly, the wind blew through the still opened window, teasingly flirtatious and beckoning. He stopped a moment, pondering the beauteous single red rose which sat delicately in a crystal decanter of the finest brandy, placed there by his own hand in a moment of fitful brooding and gasped. Then, like a dawning beacon his eyes glowed from an inner awakening, he briskly strode of a purpose to his desk, set the candle in a position to throw the best light and began to furiously write.

Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows do, with their death, bury their parents' strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, and the continuance of their parents' rage, which, but their children's end, naught could remove, is now the two hours' traffic of our stage; the which if you with patient ears attend, what here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.*

~The End~

*Last paragraph, the Prologue from William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet