The Muse

I've come by some worthwhile ideas, and I carry them around. It's like carrying water in your hands. I keep most of it, but if I don't dump them in a more reliable vessel soon, I unavoidably lose a little to spillage. Ideas are the most mercurial of things - innumerable are the times when I've had a valuable inkling, only to lose it to a distraction or derailed train of thought. Wise is the man who jots down ideas at every opportunity. Pretentious is the writer who unnecessarily writes complex subject constructions.

I am fortunate, as throughout my life I am afloat in a sea of notions and perspectives. The muse, a source of an artist's inspiration, is constantly whispering in my ear, or at least sending me mental junk mail, for which I am grateful. If I were to make something tangible of one-fifth of the ideas that occur to me, I would be something to see indeed. Paradoxically, with my blessing I am also cursed with pessimism and low self-esteem, traits that quickly and brutally quash creation. So if I can squeeze out any product at all from the lightning that strikes my brain, I feel exceptionally lucky.

All this navel-gazing serves to substantiate this: I fantasize that the muse really exists, and that if I don't act in some way to create or commemorate the messages she sends me, she will punish me with a paucity of ideas in the future.

The above paragraph sounds laughable and ludicrous to the skeptical pessimism within me. Fanciful to the point of ridicule. Muses, spirits and gods that I've made up in my head. The very idea!

Did I mention that the skeptical pessimist is proving a less and less valuable companion on this journey I'm on? He truly is...