For the first time in over a year, I wrote some lyrics Sunday night.
I think my own heart is my muse. As it speaks to me, I am inspired. When it doesn't, my words remain bitter and dormant. It's not that I need constant heart-wrenching still pictures of life to keep the heart a flutter. I've seen a war and many changes in the world over the past year, yet it doesn't inspire me to write. I think those types of situation are too great for my comprehension. I think the level of importance on which life and death rest are sometimes out of my grasp. My muse, my heart needs but one thing. Love.
Yes. I've said it. My heart needs love. Within it, remains the love of family and friends. From time to precious time, that inspires me. But an emotion even greater than that pulls at my soul. It has come so close, so many times to grabbing on, only to lay a cold, hard stamp of "unapproved".
But these are the series of life that keep my muse alive. Thinking, but not knowing. Feeling, yet still unsure. Dreaming, but really only wishing. Just when my muse thinks she can't muster enough for game 7, she opens up once more. This is a process, one that perpetuates itself once every so often.
I lay down with a few, but every body that rests next to mine is just another failed attempt to subside the predilections of my muse. She seeks Love, knowing that not all who come before her will give it. Or are worthy to have it. Yes, my muse has an affinity for only the finest. Only the best for me, she claims. As the bodies that lay beside her attempt to grab hold of her, she dictates. She decides. She enables the welcome hand, or disperses it valiantly. She protects me. She allows me to feel only enough to learn. See, my muse knows better. She knows that when she does welcome that one hand, when she inspires me brilliantly, she knows that I will no longer want to learn. I will want to live. Live with her and that one hand.
My muse will then take on a new role. One of faith, trust, meaning. My muse, as I, will grow up. Our affair will be continued, but on a level higher than that of the highest cloud. A level, where that one hand and I will remain inseparable. My muse will indulge this. She'll see it as an opportunity for the boy, me, to grow into the person she's always wanted me to become. To her, I AM a mere boy. I have been since birth, and I remain that way until she feels it is time. I think I know the reasons why those other hands never grasp on, but it's not the case. My muse knows why. She hasn't prepared me fully. But she knows when the clock will strike. She knows when the hand will enter the heart. She knows. She doesn't let on, simply because she likes seeing the boy, me, think.
It entertains her. Occasionally, she let's someone in and then discards her abruptly. All the while, watching my every thought and every move. This rejuvenates her life, and her life inspires me. She loves it when I'm inspired. She loves to witness a finished product. One of letters, and words all jumbled together. Me, the boy, trying to make sense of what has just happened. This gives the muse much joy.
But as time passes, so does my inspiration. My muse knows what we both need. And there she was, recently at it again. Watching me write another finished product, a product of her real work. Her inspiration.
She takes pride in it, more so than I.
My gratification will come when my muse prepares me fully. My gratification will come when the clock strikes. My gratification will come when my muse allows that one hand to pass.
Until then, my muse remains my true inspiration.
I think my own heart is my muse. As it speaks to me, I am inspired. When it doesn't, my words remain bitter and dormant. It's not that I need constant heart-wrenching still pictures of life to keep the heart a flutter. I've seen a war and many changes in the world over the past year, yet it doesn't inspire me to write. I think those types of situation are too great for my comprehension. I think the level of importance on which life and death rest are sometimes out of my grasp. My muse, my heart needs but one thing. Love.
Yes. I've said it. My heart needs love. Within it, remains the love of family and friends. From time to precious time, that inspires me. But an emotion even greater than that pulls at my soul. It has come so close, so many times to grabbing on, only to lay a cold, hard stamp of "unapproved".
But these are the series of life that keep my muse alive. Thinking, but not knowing. Feeling, yet still unsure. Dreaming, but really only wishing. Just when my muse thinks she can't muster enough for game 7, she opens up once more. This is a process, one that perpetuates itself once every so often.
I lay down with a few, but every body that rests next to mine is just another failed attempt to subside the predilections of my muse. She seeks Love, knowing that not all who come before her will give it. Or are worthy to have it. Yes, my muse has an affinity for only the finest. Only the best for me, she claims. As the bodies that lay beside her attempt to grab hold of her, she dictates. She decides. She enables the welcome hand, or disperses it valiantly. She protects me. She allows me to feel only enough to learn. See, my muse knows better. She knows that when she does welcome that one hand, when she inspires me brilliantly, she knows that I will no longer want to learn. I will want to live. Live with her and that one hand.
My muse will then take on a new role. One of faith, trust, meaning. My muse, as I, will grow up. Our affair will be continued, but on a level higher than that of the highest cloud. A level, where that one hand and I will remain inseparable. My muse will indulge this. She'll see it as an opportunity for the boy, me, to grow into the person she's always wanted me to become. To her, I AM a mere boy. I have been since birth, and I remain that way until she feels it is time. I think I know the reasons why those other hands never grasp on, but it's not the case. My muse knows why. She hasn't prepared me fully. But she knows when the clock will strike. She knows when the hand will enter the heart. She knows. She doesn't let on, simply because she likes seeing the boy, me, think.
It entertains her. Occasionally, she let's someone in and then discards her abruptly. All the while, watching my every thought and every move. This rejuvenates her life, and her life inspires me. She loves it when I'm inspired. She loves to witness a finished product. One of letters, and words all jumbled together. Me, the boy, trying to make sense of what has just happened. This gives the muse much joy.
But as time passes, so does my inspiration. My muse knows what we both need. And there she was, recently at it again. Watching me write another finished product, a product of her real work. Her inspiration.
She takes pride in it, more so than I.
My gratification will come when my muse prepares me fully. My gratification will come when the clock strikes. My gratification will come when my muse allows that one hand to pass.
Until then, my muse remains my true inspiration.
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