The ‘muse’ we call her, and then we wait. God knows what we wait for. We wait for inspiration, as though it should spring from her fingers. As though it should flow from her lips; from her figure, which sways against the shadow’s respite. We wait for her voice, an inaudible tremor, that only dead leaves can stir.

But alas, she is a mute! She is a statue, erected purely for our sanity. It is we, who are tasked with giving her a voice.

Do not forget that.

It is we, who must breathe life into those lips. Those tight white lips, masking the darkness within. If we could just wait. If only we could just wait… But she does not speak. She does not speak, for she does not exist. There is no muse. She is but a shadow. A trick. A lie.

Do not forget that.

It is we, who keep her alive. For the warmth she provides, in those empty hours of the night. For the solace she brings, against the backdrop of the ever-starless sky. We keep her alive to torment her. To weigh her down with our ineptitudes. To deprive her, of our success.

She does not exist. And we must keep at it. Against the fading light, we must keep at it. And at the crack of dawn, we must keep at it. Lest in the solitude of eternity, our voices die out. Lest her voice dies out…

Lest it dies out alone, shivering in fright in some corner. That remnant of a creature. That shade of immortality, who with dead lips and empty eyes persists, breathing life forth, forth into the annals of time.