My Muse..

Every poet, artist or creator has a Muse. The one that he calls upon quite loyally and asks to bless him with her wisdom. The one that will intoxicate him with her tender touch and inspire him to create that which will be preserved, criticised and cherished eternally. Great literature, such as Odyssey or The Iliad had all started with the invocation of the muse to bless them for the adventure they are about to embark on – a creation.

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.