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Thursday, November 12, 2009

My muse is one fickle bitch.

She is patronizing in her arbitrariness, disdainful in her elusiveness.

For months now I have begged her to return to me, chucked my pride out the car window at 85 mph into the dark of night as I scan shadowy back roads to find her, calling out her name, wildly into the midnight air, heavy with anticipation.

I’ve set up altars in her name, promised my soul to her for just one fleeting moment again to bask in the possibility and clarity she provides.

It’s just now that I realize she only turns up when I’m completely broken, delighting in kicking around the pieces of me for a while as I watch on, eyes wide with disbelief. It always takes a few moments before I notice that I am actually mistaken.

Her enjoyment is not in the kicking around, but in the putting back together.

4 comments:

Peter said...

I am glad she finally showed up, Megan.

Mine always caresses my cheek softly with one hand, while punching me in the gut with the other.

Hellafied said...

Hey, that's my signature move, Peter. Maybe I am your muse?

peterdewolf said...

If so, we need to have a discussion.

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