I am a slave, at best – a lower life form that exists to serve Inspiration.
Inspiration comes and goes when she pleases, and I am to fly to her when she comes and roll out gossamer sheets for her footfalls, so that their pristine path may be traced directly to me with no adulteration, no branching curiosity, whilst she so graces me with her presence.
I am to bring her a golden goblet filled to the brim with the finest red, red wine, and if by some accident I have bled into the cup it is all the better, and she will pour it past her lips and let it trickle down her feathery bones, step by trickling step, until it pools in her feet and she again grows restless and must leave me at last.
Then, only then, may I rest.
And rest, I shall, for I am nothing without her. I am lost – a servant without a master, ink with no quill.
I am to bring her a golden goblet filled to the brim with the finest red, red wine, and if by some accident I have bled into the cup it is all the better, and she will pour it past her lips and let it trickle down her feathery bones, step by trickling step, until it pools in her feet and she again grows restless and must leave me at last.
Then, only then, may I rest.
And rest, I shall, for I am nothing without her. I am lost – a servant without a master, ink with no quill.
No, I am not a writer. I am her dog, my Muse, the lowliest of her suitors.
And still, she comes.
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