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Missing Muse

Nic Bernstein

I take my body down to the river flow
the river flow with gold

I sit myself by the river flow
the river always know

I had written that much, at least, when my muse cleared her throat, and announced her departure. "I'll be right back," she said, "you'll manage without me for awhile."

She was wrong, of course, which is why I'm where I am today. We had had a good relationship, my muse and I. Together we had spun great stories of men and Gods, done shows, sang songs. We had lived life as few others seem to any more these days. And yet, now, I feel no different from those others whom I had always pittied for their all too normal lives.

I did have a muse, I did. I can assure you of that. Where she is now I can only guess. Did she grow tired of me, go looking elsewhere for inspiration? Doubtfull, if you ask me. A muse gives inspiration, they don't take it. Although, when I think about it, that is a rather odd job description © artistic inspirer. How does one train for that? Is there a school, an acadamy?

Given the deitific nature of a muse, I guess it could just be some sort breeding, or what ever you call it for deities. Maybe, though, they're just normal people, just like you and I. One day, minding her own business, my muse probably just answered some vague job ad. Next thing she knows, Kaboom, she's a muse. Possessing God like powers to inspire artistic creativity.

The ad was probably for a waitressing job. Waitresses seem to be the closest thing to muses that I see anymore. Since my muse left me, that is. Now I have only my window, and the world I see beyond it, to serve for inspiration.

I take my body down to the river flow
the river flow with gold

I sit myself by the river flow
the river always know

Let's be honest, it's just not the same any more. Something is missing. It doesn't even sound as good as it did when she was around.

Maybe that's part of a muses job − fool the artist into thinking that he's actually got talent, thereby giving him the audacity he needs to convince others of it. Much the same as how alchohol works for singles. Or at least how it works for me.

O.K., let's face it. Something had to be done − try as I might I just wasn't producing the kind of work I needed to pay the rent. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I went shopping.

In the mall, the one downtown, was the store I needed − Muses Are Us. Not many people knew abou this store, they were in the basement. I had made a few inquiries amongst friends to find out about it, and now I was there.

My first reaction, upon entering the store, was that I had found Nirvana. All around me was inspiration

She is as a song on my lips
Whose words are yet unwritten

Her movements are a symphony
as yet to be performed

Her inspiration surges
pulses in my veins

Driving me to write again
Create as once before