VIVA LA JOY. (_bulldoze) wrote,
VIVA LA JOY.
_bulldoze

A muse is a rare thing. Daily inspirations, although sometimes magnificent, cannot compare to the magnitude of the presence that lurks over your shoulders while you sit at your page and sprinkles something awe-inspiring onto your fingers. Your fingers become idle and uncontrollable, but in the most convenient and exciting of ways. Suddenly the world bows at them, and anything you want, you can have. Anything you dream, you can live. Anything you think, you can write.

Muses, to me at least, have been seemingly completely random people that I come in contact with. I've only had two to date. One was the Jock-o Allstar of my high school class. Rick Nold, the perfect boy of all the perfect boys, the boy with a world of baseball scholarships in the shape of pretty blond virgins calling his name with the most pleasuring and appealing of screams, the boy that for some reason showed up in at least one of my classes every semester to bewilder me for most of high school, inspired something that later titled the Rick Nold Monologues. He came from nowhere, had no considerable involvement in my life, inspired me madly, twisted my entire mind around, and suddenly completely ceased to inspire me a second further on a random day that struck that Winter. I was incredibly bizarre the randomness of all of it, and how attached I had grown to something that had little to no interest in my existence, and then how suddenly it just stopped and I found nothing special about him anymore. But I digress. Those Monologues are over, and there is a new muse to speak of in the land of dirt mountains and big yellow underscore bulldozers.

I cannot be blamed for not noticing the presence of a muse in my life until it is practically gone. That fact usually doesn't become apparent to a writer until they're able to sit down and realize that there is a being present here that is making them do things they do not typically do; bigger things, better things. At that point, its presence doesn't much matter anymore, and all that's needed at this point is a conclusion. The life has come and gone and one can only appreciate it for what became of it; a compilation of the writer's and the muse's inner-workings, and every last detail of their unrecognized affair. As writers, we simply do not realize who is controlling our fingertips when that saint whispers the secrets of the universe in our ears as we write. It is merely there, rare, sweet and necessary.

I will be typing the series of entries that I have been hiding from the public in my book. Most of these entries will be locked, but everything will end up being there, and I will post them over the coming few days. I will then compile everything I've ever written about someone you know as Ben Danger, title my compilation, and see what becomes of a series I wasn't aware I had created until it was nearly completed. I have taken the Troy Swain approach of making something valuable out of the twisted nature of a twisted relationship, and although I can't draw a comic remotely comparable to his means of venting, I can confidently say that the coming writing will hopefully entertain nonetheless.
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