Even as life flickers into being, a bright light enters our consciousness. It is what makes us unique, and what brings us our joys and sorrows, our creativity and our truest expression.
It still rests there.

That vital nugget of molten gold, embedded as it is in my sleeping soul.
That pulsing blob of syrup, oozing, stretching and contracting in time with my heartbeat.
That grinding lump, rubbing with every day that it remains, yet fatal to remove.
Inspiration is blessing and curse. Price and Prize. All and none.

If you have something to say, you must say it, no matter the cost, yet you will never, in your limited scope, do it justice. None could hope to, for perfection is an ideal yet to be achieved.

Thus, my muse pulls at it’s chains, wrenching and tugging, struggling to be free, and in its desperation wounds itself and renders itself imperfect once more.

Herein lies the muse’s curse. It’s blessing? That depends on how you use it.