IN MY FORGOTTEN CORNER

(Original Image by tengyart)

You know, it doesn’t matter what plans you put in place, the universe has a way of organizing your time for you. There are too many variables in a typical day that makes the execution of rigid planning impossible, or at the very least fruitless despite one going through the motions. In my experience, I’ve found the heart of creativity to be fickle, unable to commit to any time or space. I suppose, as conduits of the Muse, we must still arrive at our work stations at a regular interval in hopes that she may return… and she often does, just not as we would like. This fact is disconcerting for my rigorous mind. Like a machine in some dream factory, I would like the Muse to produce a certain amount of product at a certain time period ad infinitum. But, I’ve also learned that my preference has no bearing on the creative act. The Muse will show when she deems necessary and talk only of issues on her mind. The best I can do is show up each morning (and night if I have something left in the tank) and wait for her to arrive. It’s no surprise to me the Muse is seen as female in this respect, for her will is strong but infinitely flexible like water, and any effort to control her will only push her in another direction as you grow more and more frustrated.

I’m learning to let go… of expectation, of adulation, of everything. Just as a spider spins his web with no thoughts of glory, so shall I sit at my desk, fingers at the ready, thinking of nothing and nobody. Those angry eyes aimed in my direction are fixed in vain. Those angry words are forever deafened by the miles between us. You want me to hurt, to suffer so that you may sit and watch. I tell you straightforwardly, I suffer regardless of your intentions. You have already won. I am already defeated, a lost shell of a man reaching for the moon. Does that take the thrill out of it? Do you get your kicks conjuring and focusing your ire at the walking dead? Come now, there are much more beautiful people to hate. There are much taller buildings to knock down so that you may revel like pigs among the dust and debris. I merely spin my web in my forgotten corner. I fashion artifices to catch flies in the moonlight. I sit and wait and sleep, thinking of nothing and everything and you, forever and never. This, in all its un-glory, is the purpose of my being, and I am its slave. So, I toast you with my empty wine glass. Salut! Salut! Your hatred is victorious, now direct it elsewhere lest it consume you.

There comes a point of hopelessness when a leap of faith is required, not for salvation, no… but for an understanding and acceptance of self. For, what good is eternal life when you are your own worst enemy? I went out to dinner last week with a friend of mine. He told me he had been seeing a therapist, and that the therapist advised him to focus his logic and reason on ways to accept what is rather than change what is… I think the Muse would second that statement as a world full of silent typewriters tremble in the night.