Somewhere in the vastness that is the universe, is something that comes to me. Sometimes it is as faint as an angels whisper, sometimes even quieter. With all the noise that is my life, it is hard to hear what this voice is saying. Now there can be the chance that it is my own conscious trying to tell me things, but I know, from experience that what my conscious says, I generally don't want to hear. This other voice, though, I am desperate to listen to.
It is not of this world. It knows about this world, but not from it. It resides somewhere up there. Past the boundaries of our radio and television signals. I know this, for if it caught just a snippet of what is going on down here, it would take off and find another place and person to whisper to. This place is a mess. Argue with me. My life, not as much of a mess as some, but I can't go to bed and watch the news before I fall asleep. I just cant do it. Give me my rose coloured glasses and I'm good. Thank you, goodnight.
Now, equipped with this information, I figure maybe, just maybe, the voice knows about our situations on this little blue planet, and intentionally comes here to haunt and or tease me. I'm sure there are others whose ears are tickled by the aforementioned whispers. For all intents and purposes, let me call them muses.
For those of you who follow this blog, (and let me tell you I read my stats and know where you are Globally speaking You in Germany, hello. France, United States and Canada. The few of you in Australia and the Ukraine, Sweden), you by now have figure out that I write. Many people write, alot of them better than me and measured by their success and bank deposits. Where was I?....oh yeah, muse.
Those extra-stellar influences come to me when I am not looking for them, but need them. I write to escape. When all is great in my life, I can't write. Sounds like tortured writer syndrome? No, it's not that. I need crap in my life to escape from via the pen and paper. I need to create a world that is different than this one. Not necessarily fantasy, but fiction. Some other kind of here. And I generally have no idea how to create a story line, or characters, sub plots and crisis'. I don't. It is that voice that comes to me when I step outside to have a smoke. I don't smoke inside my house and have to step outside to indulge my vulgar habit, but it is there, in that roofless environ that I can hear that soft subtle voice. It is there that the idea comes to me. Not that I give it birth, that I receive it! Many many years ago a wrote a poem,
My pen has wings,
A mind of its own.
I, but an instrument of support.
It spills forth my dreams,
tales of a far away love,
of pain too close,
of tears that curse a blazing trail down my cheeks.
I damn the script,
I embrace it.
I am a slave to a creature that has possessed me,
Screaming with a vengeance to escape, in silent form.
And so I write,
Pleasing that part of mer that is not me,
Praying and pleading that it is.
I have spent thousands of hours in front of blank pages waiting for something to come to my mind so I might mar the lines, but to no avail. Until the whisper comes, my mind is as blank as the page before me.
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