The Writer’s Other Muse

I wrote with passion, emotion, ignorance and innocence. He made it his duty to suggest some reality, so that the world could grasp this deep seat creativity that was about to be born. I was a child with vision, he was the man with experience. My arts were my children that I feared the cruel existence of the world would dilute them into something I would come to hate. He showed me that my arts needed their own existence, independence and if they were to survive in the cruel world, they would need their umbilical cords detach from my fear. Even more, with thunderous utterance he exclaimed, these arts are not yours, but massages waiting to navigate the world, teaching, inspiring, consoling, creating and sometimes causing relevant confusions and upheaval. They have the potential for revolutions, and make a man beg for mercy, love, peace, death, sex, wine, hate, a good book….ah, don’t be so attach dear author, you are only a vessel through which these arts are to enter into the world. Just like a mother giving birth to a child and the child has to find his way through this world, you are the mother to these arts. They are not yours to keep.


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