My muse is a fickle being, she plays peek a boo with my creativity and runs and hides when I grasp at her. She hides, while I seek, and thus it always seems to be. Rarely, she shares her wisdom with me, and at the rarest of times, a hand occassionaly reaches down from the Heavens and touches my soul, creating a conduit by which words flow through my hands and directly onto the page. These moments are fleeting and far between, they are to be cherished when they come along, but never coddled or protected, no use and abuse that inspiritation, ride that wave of creativity, drive that direct connection to the Universe like it’s a stolen car, squeeze it of every last ounce of juice, drain that lemon dry, and then squeeze some more, and when it’s empty and your done, walk away, leaving the exploding, flaming wreck of your writing behind you, while the people watch it brightly burning.
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