Hello there, darling. I’ve never addressed you
directly, have I? You know, I usually take you for granted, like your
obligation is to be here, grammar mistakes and all. I haven’t given myself time
to thank you for deciding to be here, within me.
We both know there are some things we have to
defeat before having the world reading us. After all, pop culture is hard to
achieve, and we have to let it all be in God’s hands. It’s a bit pretentious to
assume every single citizen of the world needs to read our words, but I guess
believing the contrary is horribly pessimistic and a bit conformist. We have to
fight until the end, my dear Muse.
Have I told you you’re terribly stubborn,
completely capricious and borderline child-like? It’s you that makes my
artistic sensibilities work the way they do: understanding everything yet
knowing nothing. I do believe that’s the writer’s greatest curse: the fact that
the world’s wisdoms are available for their mind to use and traduce, yet they
rarely reach their hearts, condemning them to be the hypocrites of history. Oh,
my dear Muse, I do hope your sisters are willing to let the poor minds they
inhabit understand this with their hearts as you have done with me, giving them
the ability to fight it. This knowledge is most prosperous for everyone: it’s a
firm grasp of personal boundaries that can lead the right soul to illumination,
given time to meditate, discipline to give doing it, and a bit of carelessness
to accept the results when they present themselves.
A writer is the happiest victim, for it falls
willingly into the beautiful yet callous hands of the Muse. You lot, lovely
little sprits of wondrous doom, make us the most extraordinaire (in the neutral
sense of the word, of course) of humans. A pained soul that holds in its hands
the key to redemption and paradise, yet finds it terribly difficult to fit it
into the keyhole. An emotion-ridden freak of nature that can catalogue its own
responses yet it has no means of controlling them but the lessons learned through
hardships, as every other being on the planet. An usually temperamental person
that finds the urges of spitting fire and venomous words to the unlucky
creature that finds itself in the wrong place at the wrong time, of crying with
little to no reason at all or of laughing hysterically with no care of the
situation at hand, virtually impossible to canalize in a more convenient
matter, and that does so with a lot of unrecognized effort. Because the genius,
the virtuoso and the Muse-bearing artist all have one essential flaw: they need
a public. That’s why paparazzi are so vital for the most superfluous of us: the
movie actors and the pop singers, whose world barely goes beyond the length of
their nose and yet, they find their own perfection in that.
Dear Muse; you demand my tiny little yet
powerful brain, which serves no further purpose than being your home, to sleep.
Goodbye, my Muse, I shall be back tomorrow.
