Confronting my Muse
I see words being thrown, like paint on a wall sized canvas by an eclectic pale outcast in paint splattered clothes that were once the good clothes. Her mad long hair winds and wanders, knots and untangles with a mind of its own.
It’s me, staring at that huge canvas, slinging paint like stones; but at my laptop, fingers pounding keys, bruised by the assault. Paint can be thrown; my words can be pounded, freed from rock like sculpture.
These words inside of me; I’ll rip them savagely from my mind, heart and gut. I’ll annihilate anyone that even hints in the softest lowest of whispers that my words cannot be liberated; even if it’s me, I’ll banish that false self over and over. Why the reinforced doors and windows? That leaves only a keyhole for my words to ride whatever tiny draft may be blowing that day. I can’t let my words suffocate.
I will do the thing I love best. I’ll entice my words to flow thickly like honey from a bottomless jar. Soothing, sweetening, easing the words out so my fingers can then pound the keys. This is what my inner self wants from me.
Can I convincingly coax myself to be the me I know, the one who is released with words, inspired visually, spiritually and my moving breath and body? Can I shake off the traps of envy, judgement, neediness, lonliness, and insecurity? Can I stop trying to appease them, beg them, or pay them off? Can I live freely? Can I live through my freed words?
Yes. The answer is yes.
Inside Out 