My Muse

 About a year ago I was in the midst of a profound and productive creative streak.  I had stories popping into my mind just about daily.  It was as though something would tap my mind's shoulder and say, "Hey man.  Check this out.  Whaddya think?" I would reply, "Ohyeah, Yeaahhhh.  Nice!  We'll go with that.  That will work."

It was a glorious time.  I felt as though I was improving as storyteller.  I worked hard at the very hard task of becoming more subtle in revealing a plot; more able to develop an exchange between characters and have it weave itself into the flow.  I was actually, by small bits here and there, improving.  Then I lost my muse.  

My muse was there with me, inside me, inspiring me, giving energy and warmth, and love, then wasn't.  It took until midsummer to realize this.  Even then I blamed it only on COVD-19.  However, I'd been unable to convince myself that there wasn't more to it.  Something had changed. It was all a feeling, and one must guard against emotions taking the place of reality.  Even now I must be ready to admit I am wrong.  In fact, I hope am wrong. 

One day I felt the absence of said Muse most profoundly.  It was like waking up and realizing that your ears really are missing.   You've been staring in the mirror for a couple of months trying to figure out what was different, then one day, POW!  Holy shit!  My ears!  It's my ears!  What the fuck happened to my ears, Man?!

Now there is no flow.  Now there is empty space where ideas once rolled in like breakers on the Central Coast; endless and comforting, and every seventh one a simply grand idea that had me admiring my own work far too much.  

Every now and then I see the Muse, and the Muse sends love and a brief moment of inspiration before vanishing again.  At times I have called out to no avail.  I won't any longer.  There's no point.  I assign no purpose to this but the absence is real.  Of that there is simply no doubt.