Muse

      All throughout the history of literature, authors, poets, artists have attempted to lure the infamous muse from its hiding, just so they could glimpse the beast that moulds and folds the world they encounter, in all its enormity, complexity and grandeur, to a mere roll of the tongue, flick of the wrist and scratch on the paper. Authors identify the muse in the things that inspire them. The ones that make their soul feel at home. The profound moments that render the past and future obsolete. Crack open the spectrum of emotions just that much wider. 

I spy the muse in the breath that bewitches the inspiration into bursts of sound that enchant the mortal heart. 

You see, words come to me. Simultaneously, as the pulse of life drowns out every other thought in my head, I can feel the vocabulary cavalry march it, launch itself into the air, swirl around the space for a micro second and then wiggle into places they fit. That is how I write. Or at least that is how my subconscious writes and is sweet enough to share with yours truly.

I'm taking a break from my vow of usually never letting people know my secrets, since it is primary to understanding how the quotes, that this blog will be peppered with from time to time, came to be. They are not mine, they belong to the Muse. I simply listen, catalogue and expand.

I smile as I see what you're thinking. 

'She distinguishes herself from that voice in her head, the Muse as she calls it. Classic psychopath.'

Now hang on a minute before we board the judgemental train. Life, I realized early on, is too deeply entangled in the boring and colourless fragments of social norms and dictates. So I grant my imagination the utter freedom to build empires that defy gravity in the recesses of my mind. Just because. So there you go. Crazy, yes. Insane, not yet.  

This blog, therefore, belongs to the Muse, you, me and the story of Her that I entrust you with.