I always wondered what my muse was. Could it be the one that inspired Homer to write an epic that is almost confused today with myth and history? Nay, I don’t think so. The muses of these kinds have become dormant these days. Also, you need to have a fat bank balance if these muses plot to amuse you. Well then, could it be the one that kindled the fire in Yeats and Shelly? Definitely not! I don’t think I am the kind that is capable of describing skylark in such detail (with due respect to Shelly).
When I look back in time, I see that most of my best work (according to me), come from my chronic depression phase. In pain, I believe that I emote truly. In pain that I actually feel something- pain itself. Pain awakens every cell of mine and the creative juices flow like a river. When I see tears, I see words dancing there in a joy of their own. When I see blood, I see thoughts and images smiling at me. I feel joy in pain, creativity in sorrow. Well then, could Pain be my muse? A muse that gently kisses my tear-stained cheek and taps the grief that my heart feels? A muse who urges me to vent my sorrow and decadence in words- words that lay imprinted on a parchment for ever. Words, that are to be etched in my soul forever.
I am quite happy with Pain being my personal muse. After all, how can one truly emote something unless they feel it? But here is one problem - No Pain, No Gain. So does this mean I have to be in darkness for my muse to make love to me and give birth to creativity? Will I never be able to talk about green grasses and red roses? Will a clear blue sky or a pink cotton candy never inspire me? Sadly, I guess not. Like I said, I can not write something unless I feel it, in every breath and every pore of my skin. So be it! The artist is more important than the man, a poet lives not for himself but for his work. If pain be the soil and tears the water for my creative plant, I shall be happy, as long as words are its fruits.
