Muse

Writing.
Its thinking slowly and deliberately, a discipline lost on the subconscious which overwhelms with a constant torrent of sensory representations.
Then you need something to focus on to control and channel your thoughts...something that inspires you to eke out coherence from the chaos of your thoughts.
Something...or someone to anchor yourself on.
A muse.

My muse, as I long ago confessed was not real.
It was a composite person...partly made of imaginary attributes that as a writer I thought a Muse should possess and some attributes from people whom I knew.(or I imagined I knew)

My Muse appreciated what I wrote.
She craved it.
Our symbiosis was was pure.
It was religious.

Then I got married.
Love of a real woman is a powerful thing.
Too powerful, too expanding...too demanding.

My muse was no longer an imaginary construct.
She is now flesh and blood.
She is gravity.
She is everything...and more.

She is everything...and less.

She makes me want to break into a song.
She makes me want to hug and nuzzle.
She makes me want to flex my muscles taut.

But she is not the muse that made me write.






This is not an excuse, but an exposé.

Slow and deliberate,
sifting through the mind.

I wonder how Mark Twain did it.