Saturday, January 29, 2011

Inside Her Fragile Shell

I wish I had the edge to write right now. Alas, my muse has gone into rehab where I'm hoping it's learning to cope with reality on the same level as I try to, which doesn't always work out depending on who you ask. For instance, I wrote three manuscripts, all brilliant in my personal opinion, but the other side of life, the one that views things with a critical eye and bent for destruction, didn't see the beauty as well as I did. In fact, it was as if others looked at my works through a dusty filter or one with cut out shapes that should always fit and not challenge the creativity of those unknowing of what's good and just okay. The nail in the foot of my muse is trying to forget those whose corneas are cloudy and scarred. Alas, the muse is in rehab, just like Charlie Sheen minus the gut pain. Hers is a subtle ache within the center of her chest that lingers until the spring equinox, when all the tiny buds form fists and hold on until it's safe to bloom. She is a sheltered treasure with guts of a creeping ivy over a stone wall.

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