A muse will bring good news to a newly destructed corner of a neighborhood on pins and needles:
She gave me the notion that I am important and she is as sure as the day is hot and I sweat bullets before the moon comes — like I am guilty of something, and maybe I did transgress but it was only to someone else’s standards; I am making myself very proud — that I am something worth being visited, someone who deserves special attention. She illuminated my casual afternoon walk and when I am home visions of drunkards arouse in me a need for expression, an uncontrollable urge to free my insides to be forever stamped on the physical world my mind inhabits.
A muse has me arranging my food in mysteriously devised formations that I look at from far away and still cannot decipher. Maybe it is not my place, maybe I am only the conduit through which it comes, not the receiver who is able to process it.
If she tells me to explode over people, I will do it — she sometimes is someone that I would trust my life to, like my father, and she tells me as him that what I know is so important that I should do everything I can to make it known, and I don’t take any mission from her lightly – and next thing I know I am under a stranger’s skin and waking him up from the inside out. Something I never thought myself capable of.
She is first and foremost everything that fills out my flesh, and then the spark behind my words that makes them ignite.
I am, at best, just the words. Or the letters. Or maybe, if there is something smaller and more dependent, I am that.
PRL Serials 