My Muse

I would like to say I write for pleasure. That when I lift my pen or pencil and it crashes upon the page I am filled with euphoria that ends where the page and my pen separate. But that would be a lie. I write because I am entrapped with a muse. A muse I would like to call my friend but is more like a forced companion. She comes and goes like the wind from each corner of the globe. I could be reading, eating or sleeping and she will softly visit without any prior notice. And when I least expect it she wacks me across the head with ideas, people, places and feelings I’ve never met or seen. She jams my mind with scenes and relationships that are streamed like a movie. And unless I write she replays these scenes over and over again until for months all I been living are these forsaken scenes. I live in the worlds she creates, I befriend, love and lose the people she creates. My mind becomes a sick mind game I can’t escape unless my hand lifts a pen to lands it upon a sheet and materialize the words she can’t physically speak. I would like to say I write for pleasure, but the reality of the situation is that I write to survive and live in peace.

- @Shardagra