An Open Letter to the Muse

You won’t have noticed this, but I have been sitting at this desk off and on all day, wanting to write something. Nothing profound. Nothing special. Just the pleasant flow of words through fingers and keys then onto the screen. I’m not sure what I had wanted to say. Even now, writing this, I’m not sure what I want this to say.

I am wondering why you can’t stay put. Or, if you really must wander, why you can’t be someplace I can reach you when I am ready. You could leave a number that I could call when necessary.

Where do you go when you aren’t here with me? Is there someone else, some other writing person who is smiling even now, getting words on his screen? Is he getting my words? Is that what’s happening?

I don’t want to sound small or jealous. That isn’t me. It just isn’t right for you to sneak off that way and leave me alone and a little bit afraid that I may not write again.

We have a good thing, don’t we? I mean, I know I get busy and a little distracted. Maybe sometimes a few days goes by before I sit down in our place to feel the words. Maybe sometimes I rush things a little or simply go through the motions to get the time in, not really present, not really participating.

I can do better. Sure. I know I can. But so can you. Where are you? Where did you go? Why are you always running away when I have time to write and then hanging close when I have no time at all?

You are a fickle creature. I deserve better.

I’m sorry. That last thing was wrong. You are right to go. I don’t deserve you. I’m just glad to have you in my life.

Where are you? When are you coming home?

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