Monday, January 16, 2012

on writing without a muse

This morning I went to visit an angel. I took a train all the way to Babylon, then I boarded a taxi which took me to her door step.

With her fragile smile of one hundred years, translucent skin and thin white hair she spoke:

“enjoy your writing, enjoy your kids, enjoy what you have and who you are because this is it. This is what you will accomplish”

She said this while slowly pouring hot tea into my cup.


Life’s a funny old thing. It never occurred to me that I too would be but one more. That I would never be but mediocre, nothing but average.
It never does. We all expect to be special when really, average means just that, it is where most of us should expect to find ourselves.


so I should expect no shimmer or shine, just skin drying and lines growing deeper until I part ways with myself and disappear.

Tears will be shed, but no poems will be written to commemorate me. The day will pass to the world unannounced. The news will continue without the mention of my name, and I can’t help but wonder if when I look into the mirror I too will be able to feel proud of what I did with my time.

I will write once again. I will continue to write pages that will go unread, spending paper that will turn to dust instead of pixie magic.  We continue to write because that is the only truth we know, and so that in our death beads we may at least say that we tried. That we searched for our muse and it was she, not us, who failed you.


Hope tiptoes to hide under the bed as I write this, fearful of the look in my eyes, while depression lies on the bed smiling, waiting for me to join her. Perseverance is silent. She’s seen me here before, but not quite here, not this far along. 

And then hope whispers:

“we are running out of time”

And I look at her, tired, and somewhat defeated respond:

“I know”