a letter to my muse

journal entry 4.7.25

You lie beneath my skin, within the folds of my mind, flitting about, you snake, you demon, you devil. Scaled creature slipping through, whipping your tail, I chase you. You laugh. You bare your fangs. We free-fall through a great emptiness. I land on your back, dark scales beneath me, your glowing green eyes piercing through the darkness. And we ride, up into the air, familiar territory, where water turned to blood and stone monoliths cracked, but those were past lives. We are headed towards the surface. And when we break and I draw my first breath, you are gone and I am in an ocean on my own, clutching at driftwood.

I float, hungry, drenched, parched, blinded by the hot sun overhead. A gull or two fly above. They see me and laugh. There is no land for miles, one guffaws. And they fly off, crossing each other’s paths in a sort of spiraling dance. Away from the sun. And there I am. Grabbing onto my driftwood. Waiting, waiting.

For what? I'm always waiting, with you. Is that unfair to say? Why don't you come at my command? Why do I have to wait for your whims, your moods? Take me now. Carry me off. I don't want to be on this piece of wood any longer.

One eye opens. Where are you? Lazy. Uncoiling. And suddenly, there you are and there I am, an ant in front of your mountainous size, your claws like pillars of ivory, and you look down at me, blinking, your jaw opens and you let out fresh breath, it burns a little, but smells of campfire and wood grain and that crafting area from my 6th grade woodworking class, and you ask how I dare to demand anything from you? When everything good in my life came from you?

You wrote all my songs. You wrote all my pieces. You are the source of the blood on the page. You give my words life. I am nothing without you. No artist. Just a feeble man. Nothing.

You've been away for a long time. I know why. I know it hurt. But please, come back to me. I'll do anything. I'll put your space back together, just the way you like it. I'll follow your whims and fancies. I'll be the perfect man, the perfect creator. Is that a lie? I've been wrong before. But I want it as much as you do.

I kneel before you. I have no power here and you know it.

And with a gust of wind, a massive rush of scales and claws and eyes and jaw, you slither through the air, you fly, you run circles around me, then you vanish.

But I know you'll be back. This time, I'm sure.

Because I need you, and you need me. You are the source but I am the creator. You give my work life, but I give it form.

And I need you right now. Come back to me, please.