So, I haven't been able to write for a few days now, but definitely not for the lack of trying. Infact, I have several topics or subjects lying dormant in my head, the skeletons of which I can imagine, but lack the "agro" to add flesh 'pon them.

I believe I've gone past the days of forcing myself to write, when I have little or no inspiration, those days of foolishness have gotten me or my writings nowhere. Nowadays, I sit or lie humbly awaiting my muse to do the needful. When She does, she overwhelms me, and I just keep going, if she leaves to take a nap or attend to other activities that tickles her fancy (while we are at work concocting our latest brew of antidotes to ignorance), I am left hanging till she deems it fit to return, most times at the most awkward of times like necessitating coitus interruptus, or in making me incur more wrath of the Madam when just so not to miss a doze of inspiration, I abandon a tastefully prepared meal for which much time and skill was invested, amongst other misdemeanors.

.... and when she's done with me, I become totally exhausted, not the kind that leaves you breathless, but the sort that leaves you feeling you couldn't possibly do any better, only for you to begin to hunger yet for another that will either replicate your former feat or beat it. When she's kind she deals me them in torrents but on her cruelest of days, I become like a dyslexic.

She has shut me out this time around for one of the longest period in recent times, even the commode which has never failed to serve as her nidus for inspiring me has failed me regardless of the number of times I frequented it in the past few days, before spacing the frequency so as not to get the wife worried at a time frequent visits to that "shrine" could easily be translated to mean a manifestation of symptoms of Ebola Virus Disease.

On a good day the situation shouldn't bother me hadn't it been for the fact that my ability to articulate words, and constructively hold and pursue an argument to its logical conclusion now appear to be impaired as well, leading to a massive sense of disappointment amongst many a friend who had tagged me in conversations on social media only to get either "no response", or a simple "Ok", or the more bland and useless "I couldn't agree more with you" line from me. She didn't appear in the ads, music or in the everyday conversations that feed my barn of supplies for much needed yarns like she used to. Reading between the lines to pick things others could hardly find has become also arduous, while making things out of nothing looks out of the question. You know how it is that the magician's apprentice finds it difficult to use the magic wand in the absence of the magician? This is even worse. Makes you wanna scream. "Meine Muse, Meine Muse, Warum Hast Du Mich Verlassen?

The fact that it's taken me five days to get to this line, since I started writing this piece is further proof of the anguish I'm currently enduring. I couldn't be more pleased by the fact that writing for me isn't Oxygen, though sometimes it feels like I'm a patient that thrived while on a life support system, but then was suddenly disconnected when he hadn't fully recovered, and now gasping for breath as the cyanosis occasioned by the inability to adequately express myself overwhelms me. She must enjoy seeing me suffer like this, but I have refused to go down without a fight, which is why I have gathered the few words left in my arsenal to launch this tirade, not necessarily against My Muse, but at the unnecessary impasse she has foisted on me.

I hope after reading this she'll have a change of mind, and return to me that "still small voice" that sets in motion thoughts that drives the sinews to propel my fingers to qwerty to my satisfaction as well as hers, and hopefully also to those who read the outcome of our collaboration. Hmmmn!

'kovich

MEINE MUSE | madukovich's cogitations - http://madukovich./2014/08/13/meine-muse/