Sometimes, I’ll see him shift in my peripherals. Always, he’ll lurk in a dark spot, then turn to air the moment I try to spot him. In fact, I have no idea what he looks like. I see the movement, but no actors. I see the rustle, but no bodies. Always ducking out of sight just in time. I see the ripple, but no diver.
He drops in when he knows it’s inconvenient. Like when I’m seeing a friend in an hour. He wants to feel that he means more, so he times his visits to compete with my plans. But sometimes, I don’t prefer him, like when he came to me during an acid trip. I wasn’t in the mood to take him seriously; I wanted to enjoy the lights. The next time I swallowed a tab, though, I trapped myself in my dull room, and he answered every problem to a story I was writing.
He drops in when he knows it’s inconvenient. Like when I’m seeing a friend in an hour. He wants to feel that he means more, so he times his visits to compete with my plans. But sometimes, I don’t prefer him, like when he came to me during an acid trip. I wasn’t in the mood to take him seriously; I wanted to enjoy the lights. The next time I swallowed a tab, though, I trapped myself in my dull room, and he answered every problem to a story I was writing.
Most times, he’ll speak to me indirectly - the result of a Youtube misclick that leads to a lecture by Alan Watts. He’ll reveal himself in the affirmation of a mentor, or the warning on a bottle of mayonnaise to stay cool, but never freeze. He’ll tug my ear to a phrase, or he’ll make the print of a label so small, I have to hold it close.
Once, when my car broke down on the highway, no one would stop when I tried to flag for help. But when I pushed my car, other drivers got out to push with me. I think my muse operates the same way.
So I show up to the table everyday, set the cursor on a fresh page, and torment myself. Sometimes, he’s kind enough to crack his knuckles and get me out of my mess.
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