muses

The Three Graces by Antonio Canova

It begins to dawn on me that we might be, afterall, surrounded by muses, that our artistic inspirations might not be entirely of our own.  For several years, I have been trying in vain to restore the state of mind I was in in that singular and seemingly too-good-to-be-true year of my life.  With no job in the prospect and a completed education, I had nothing better to do, and it was mere chance that I embarked upon a year of fierce writing.  Before I realized it, what started as a spur of the moment drive had turned into a full-fledged commitment and I ended up with a small crowd of dedicated and persistent followers.  To this day, I am unable to bring to a closure what I started, a story without an ending (the ending has long been decided in my head, just not put down on paper), a phase left hanging in mid-air, mildly tantalizing yet always a few inches beyond my grasp.  At a point, I seriously considered the possibility that it wasn't me in that shell with fingers maddeningly dancing away on the keyboard amassing up to ten thousand word count per day for the good part of a year, but rather a muse (in fine Greek chiton) hovering over me doing all the masterminding and orchestrating.  Nonethless, I suppose it was mortal passion that led to the advent of a wandering muse.