When the Muse Calls

My heart beats faster and faster. I’ve started and it’s the middle of night. That’s bad news because it means I can’t stop. I no longer have control. Intention, deliberation, structure, these are foreign to me. My muse has awoken and she leads the way now. I do my best to channel what she says to me, to catch every word. But I’m scrambling and I’m frantic and I’m writing as fast as I can, because she seems to be funnelling all of existence into my mind. I choke back the tears, because every missed word and thought feels like art that will never see the light of day. I want so badly to take it all in, but merely understanding is not enough. It must be written so that it can truly be understood. It must be written because my art must honor the universe, and the only way to do so is to put back out into the world what was put into the world of my mind. My only saving grace is that I do my amuse’s bidding at night, when the world is quiet and time sits almost still. That is when my muse calls to me, and I answer her call, because the writing was never mine to begin with.