Where My Muse At?

For hours, I’ve been sitting here at my laptop, waiting for her to come back. It’s obvious she’s playing hard to get, right? Why do I do this to myself? At its worst, it’s a destructive relationship. But at its best, she swoops me up and takes me to places no one has ever gone, making me even more addicted to her presence, her passion, her guided excursions down the hidden corridors of my mind.

When she’s gone too long, I crave her essence like an addict longing for their next hit. Shivering, jerking fingers long to shoot her fluidic passions into my veins so I can just lay back with eyes rolled back in my head and watch unscripted adventures privy only to me. I hear the Blues of loves lost, feel the longing of matters just out of my reach, or taste the essence of worlds not my own.

In the meantime, my muse’s favorite game seems to be hide and seek—my absolute least favorite game. Yet this dilemma of mine matters very little to her, for she relishes in my search. Some days, I’m good at remembering where I found her last…

In the dew of a morning rose

In the laughter of a child

Between the tears and wailing of those left behind

Seconds before an inevitable argument

Dangling mysteries, daring to be solved

In the crawl space between anguish and joy

In the cricket symphony in my brain

In blue-note lullabies, the red-hot tension of R&B, or the orange-flame pauses of Jazz

Sometimes, I find myself shouting for her to come out of her hiding place, but shouting, begging, and pleading hardly ever work. And just like a crazy ex that shows up out of the blue, my muse cares not what’s occupying my time or space when she arrives, demanding my undivided attention. Being the junkie that I am, I give in to her demands, for I have no idea when she’ll show up again. And when she leaves me again, I’ll keep looking for her in every blade of grass, every polar bear in the sky, every slide down a rainbow in my quest to catch a glimpse of her again.