Melpomene's Wish

I'll lay on the couch in a silk bathrobe, dazing in and out of consciousness... you can write me wonderful stories...

...

A muse with a missive.

Muses inspire creation.

I have thought of words to match these visions in the morning.

At the midday I rested and pondered not except what was before me.

In the afternoon I sought reason in distraction, in time I pondered words to convey these visions. In odd intervals I would speak, in odd moments I would not.

In the evening I go to places where men seek happiness, and find a semblance of reason in the plaintiff woes of the day. My problems steal away, I am soothed by the solace of the implacable task before me: Chronicling these silken visions.

I think in a vibrant blue, thought-streams patterned after places I've never been.

In the night I scheme on words to accompany your suggestions, I can think of none but what you have said most succinctly.

These days are wrought with conspiracy to bring to fruition the promise of "lost days." Visions out on the periphery of sojourns in and out of consciousness, tracing the curves of neutral sheets, exploring the mysteries of these lean years, chasing the fall from such great heights till it all comes to rest in a canyon of pillows. You may solve yet these many riddles my mind cannot comprehend. I will simply wander in these places, absolved from trying to understand.

I have been promised nothing. I have come to expect even less. The slightest hint of a minor chord carry me off on tangents that leave me sea-sick. Dreams trouble my days, like a host of maladies it would take life-times to ever come to know.

There are things still of which I cannot speak, but she does.

Temptation in her body, the tomes I long to write tangled up in the french twist of her hair, how I long for it to fall all around me. The pen I need to purge my soul of this very affliction is buried there, how it holds it all so delicately in place.

I have visions now. I tarry amongst these dreams; afterthoughts of slumbers most-fitful. Time wanes and still I can consider nothing else. The grand procession will stop when I am there, time will stop when you get here. The disquiet mind will purr, systemic as the rings around the sun. The seas of a troubled soul will be quelled by ancient hands, the last vestiges of the great races that once were.

I will sleep then, when she sleeps. I will search for words as she stirs. Lost in the mean time, I will remember it all when she is gone. My words will give insight into all these things I have seen, solve the great riddles of the things I have done.

But there is eternity yet to cross, as she calls, time out of time, unto time. An alpha and omega of sorts, of her making. It will be there that everything hangs on a whisper. I will not dream, for I will not sleep. I will do naught but stare, as she comes in and out of consciousness before me.

And I will write stories more true than anything I have ever imagined.