Sitting alone, late into the night until the first glow of the sunrise, my hands are poised over the keyboard. I wait. The muse is in deep thought. Images, terrible and gut wrenching visions flow from this disembodied narrator. The passion, full of soul and transformation, scream into my consciousness. “I can’t,” I whisper to the muse. “This is too much.” The muse is silent. It has no eyes to see the horror on my face. No mouth to utter comforting words.
I have followed my muse for years. Though it is blind and mute, my source of inspiration casts visions born of gods and devils. I submit to its commands and write the words. Some I dare not speak of in the world of flesh and blood. Most appear on my monitor as though etched by the heat of a flame.
No one is here to see the magic. No one is here to see me weep. No one is here to see my body tremble with desire. No one is here to see me prostrate my body to the muse and grovel for more.