The Boy Who Could Not Disobey
Every day I seek her out and beg for her to be with me, just a few more hours, minutes, seconds. I long for her touch when I'm without her and I can't help but take her with me everywhere I go. Sometimes she makes me want to go raging mad, or she'll lull me to a state of serenety and peace. She whispers in my ear as I sleep and she screams at me while I work. There's times she comes to me, grasping me in her bliss and beauty as I lay breathless. Other times she'll hit me in the face and tell me I can get up on my own. She's energetic as a blur and slow like tumbleweed, she'll send me light years away or just rest in the confines of my heart.
She won't tell me her name but she is my muse and she comes to me in music.
I know a lot of people who have muses out there, for some it's the written word, for others it's paint and graphite, but for me it's always been that ever-passing realm of sound. I've never had aspirations to learn music in any form and I can't even imagine what it would be like to sing well. How ironic that what should control me the most is what is the most detached from my world.
In the strangest of ways she guides me to what she wants me to hear, telling me to slow down when things get hard in life or speed up when things get better. Like a tempo for my very existance, my muse shows me the way through her victorious power. I can only worship at her alter by listening and my only offering to her is my ear. Like a slave she tells me where to go and when, how to care and why, who to love and where, and sometimes she just mumbles without making one bit of sense. All in the while I'm stuck in her grasp, and I might never be free.
She won't tell me her name but she is my muse and she comes to me in music.
I know a lot of people who have muses out there, for some it's the written word, for others it's paint and graphite, but for me it's always been that ever-passing realm of sound. I've never had aspirations to learn music in any form and I can't even imagine what it would be like to sing well. How ironic that what should control me the most is what is the most detached from my world.
In the strangest of ways she guides me to what she wants me to hear, telling me to slow down when things get hard in life or speed up when things get better. Like a tempo for my very existance, my muse shows me the way through her victorious power. I can only worship at her alter by listening and my only offering to her is my ear. Like a slave she tells me where to go and when, how to care and why, who to love and where, and sometimes she just mumbles without making one bit of sense. All in the while I'm stuck in her grasp, and I might never be free.