With
a gentle flutter of the wings, Muse lands softly on the edge of the windows. In
the darkness, there seems to be a pale glow around her outlines. Could it be
the moon, or has she become estranged from me?
“It’s
been some time since we last met eh? So how have things been?”
I
really need to get something written. I need to write some pretty prose. What
do you have to offer me?
“Hmmm… how about this?
Ballad,
I wish for you to seek out Love
and go with him into my lady’s presence,
so that my exculpation, which you sing,
may be explained to her by Love, my lord.
You
travel, ballad, with…”
I
interrupt her. Hey, isn’t this from Dante? That’s like really long ago la… He
wrote this in 1285! And don’t you know what prose is?
“Darn…
that’s what you get when you play Muse to a major in literature…”
Without
the need for words, I somehow get this feeling that she’s going to launch into
some Shakespearean sonnet, so I stop her before she does so. Nope, Shakespeare
is not going to work for the pretty prose I want.
“I do not know how
elastic my spirit might be, what pleasure I might have in living here and
breathing and wandering as free as a stag about this beautiful Coast if the
remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me. I have never known any unalloy’d Happiness for many days together: the sickness of
one has always spoilt my hours – and now when none such troubles oppress me, it
is you much confess very hard that another sort of pain should haunt me. Ask
yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so
destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write
immediately and do all you can to console me in it – make it rich as a draught
of poppies to intoxicate me – write the softest words and kiss them that I may
at least touch my lips where yours have been…. I almost wish we were
butterflies and liv’d but three summer days – three such
days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty years could ever
contain.”
Hmmm… I like that, but that would make me sound strange yah? And nope, I don’t think I want to
be guilty of plagiarism… why don’t you help me express what I want in my own
words?
“But
what is it that you want to express?”
I
want to write pretty prose that lifts one. Prose that lifts
one above the tedium of the day. Prose that blesses
one such that one is no longer afflicted by pain and ill health. Prose
that would help keep one happy even if it’s only for
that moment. I thought of using the imagery of spring, of flowers blooming and
birds chirping, but that’s forever passe. But that’s
the exact image I want to conjure up – one of brightness, of hope, of ecstasy.
This prose must not force out some contrived happiness… it should delight her;
its beauty must enchant her so that she’s smiling even before she realises it
herself. From words on a hard-lit screen, music should fly forth. These words
must no longer remain as just text, but music to her ears. And just like how
music helps to heal the soul, those words must produce that same soothing
effect – that there’s nothing treacherous in this world anymore as long as
there exists people who care.
These
words must purge. No longer purge negative emotions, but instead purge the
capacity to inflict harm. These words must make the soul want to fly, soar high
above the heavens, and once satiated with that flight, settle back down to face
the hard facts of life’s realities again. And this time, the soul would be ready to face them. Because there’s company.
Muse
takes a good long look at me, gives me a satisfied smile. With a gentle
whirring of her light translucent wings, she takes off into the night.
Thanks.
dejectium out
2340hrs gmt +7