My Muse Is Like A Colour Of A Thousand Shades

Image source: DeviantArt

When people ask me about my muse, my source of inspiration, I often don’t know what to say. It is like asking a man to describe the feel of a river. Sometimes, it’s fast; sometimes it’s slow. At some places, it would be warm; and at some other places, it would be cold.

My muse is like that. Some times, it’s all about the writing. Some other times, it’s the voice telling me to do the right thing. My muse is like a colour with a thousand shades. I can tell you a few only if you care to listen.

My muse is the twin sister I never had. She was the first companion I had as I was forced out of my mother’s womb. She understands me better than anyone because we grew up together and she experiences whatever I experience.

My muse is the converter. She’s the one who converts what I see into stories, what I hear into conversations and what I feel into words that inspire feelings. She is the conduit through which I escape reality into a world of endless imaginations.

My muse is like The Divine. She has always been there, has always made me felt her presence and will always be there. Her eternal presence is my source, my strength and my shield. She is the one who sustains my universes and creates life through my fingers.

My muse is a Dragon. When boredom and loneliness encamp me with a thousand armies, she swoops in with terror in her eyes. She breathes fire that reduce the enemies to ashes and lifts me above the mundane world into that of the angels.

My muse is a river of blue blood in my veins. It is the reason I do not see like others neither do I think like others. While others see realities, I see possibilities; a intricate web of pulsating stories. I only need to attenuate to the strains and feel the river rush to my head, flooding my brain with tales yet untold.

My muse is my mistress. Her eyes bold and reckless, with honey dripping off her sexy melanin. I only need to prop her against the wall or bury her head in the soft of the pillow. My mouth praying in a thousand tongues, my fingers awakening her nerve endings. I set her on a rush for the climax of the mountain as my tongue breathes ‘cunnilingustic’ words.

My muse is a whisperer. A voice whose origin lies not in this world; her voice a constant stream of words like ejaculated whitish liquid, filling my mind until I conceive. In a short while, the world would be greeted by the lines of a bouncing bundle of imagination.

My muse is a gossip. She narrates tales from worlds far and near, tingling my emotions until I crawl from between the sheets and bid my fingers to massage a keyboard. Sometimes she tells it all and I only need to document the revelation. Other times she gives me bits and we knit them like Dolly Parton’s rags into a coat of many colours.

My muse is the other side of me, whatever the other side needs be. A man, woman, boy, girl, father, mother, brother, sister, God, Satan, Angel, Demon, Judge, Criminal, Straight, Gay, Lesbian… whatever form the story demands, she is mystique who can take on any shape.

My muse is the one who tells me this is enough lest I reveal the kinkiness of our relationship; the silent whispers in the dark, the gyrating of real against imaginary birthing tales even I have never heard of.

My muse is like a colour of a thousand shades