My Muse

My muse left me one day. I sat, pen in my hand, paper on my desk, but nothing to write. No ideas flowed from my mind, no ink dried on the paper. She had left me high and dry. I cursed her then. A slew of insults streamed from my mouth. How could she do this to me? Now, of all times, with a deadline creeping up and no incredible ideas in sight.

As the final moments of desperation filled the air, a familiar presence entered the room. A smile lifted the corners of my mouth. She had returned. It was then that she began to whisper in my ear.

My intrigue grew as she hinted at a story. A story full of passion and love, longing and adventure. She told me of how she had felt overworked and underappreciated. Of how little credit I gave her. I felt a pang of guilt as she said this, for I did recognize her efforts. Knew without her my work would be nothing.

I felt her pull away, move to the far side of the room. Her presence grew quiet, yet taunting. A smirk from her felt heavy on me. I was craving to hear this story. She knew very well of my impatience. I silently pleaded with her. Tell me the story. Share with me your adventure.

Silence. I knew she was upset with me. For such a large part of my life, I had ignored her completely. Never letting her ideas flourish. It wasn’t until my nineteenth year that she finally pushed me over the edge. She hammered ideas at me until I awoke, from a dead slumber. She came at me with such force, that I had to write. I had to get these wonderful ideas on paper before I burst from within.

She still held a grudge against me. I could feel the disdain from across the room. Thick like butter. I pushed it aside, however. I knew, as much as I wanted to hear the story, she wanted to tell it.