The restless muse

The term ought not be restless, rather it should be rest-abundant, my muse has been dormant for too long. Now it tugs and begs and cajoles and dares me to feed it. Where once I was content to do what had to be done, my inner imp continues to berate me with accusations of becoming boring, ascribing to the establishment rules, wrapping the plastic bag of routine around my own soul to try and suffocate it.

It grows louder and louder each day, with more ridiculous recommendations, “what if you just squatted here on the side of this main avenue and took a piss. That would be hilarious. I mean why do the same old thing of using a bathroom, there is nothing to learn from that, no moment you can reveal in some story. It’s not like anything that bad can happen. Ugh you are so boring.” The manifestation of the words of my inner monologue no longer belongs to me.

My muse has sat dormant long enough, it takes any lull, emptiness, even just a minor opening to make itself know: when folding clothes “ugh I can’t believe you still wear underwear,” when cooking, “you know there are other humans out there that might be interesting to eat with,” when feeling the change in the seasons, “this again, how many times are you going to let us live through the same cycle,” when making small talk, “you know, just in case I run away,” I keep adding to the formalities. Sometimes I am scared to open my mouth for fear that the voice will not be the well-honed and planned one, but rather a sporadic cacophony of pent up unsaids.