Being deaf to the music that comes from the Muse
Tonight I don’t feel like a writer at all. My imaginary friend refuses to talk to me.
I read the news. Just that.
Sometimes I see the world full of ugliness. People dying and people not caring about it. People fighting. People.
Sometimes all it takes to feel better is talking to a friend, and that happened today; so I saw the beauty again, the beauty you can see only in people. A contradiction. And I hope again, a bit. But just a bit. The bit you could grasp if, and only if, you already know that Hope is the last thing to die.
And I got nothing done. Not a single word.
That’s depressing: maybe I don’t have what it takes. Maybe I’m good just at hoping, and not good enough to look into Truth’s eyes.
But maybe I’ve also finally met a new Demon, one I’ve never dared to meet before.
Self Doubt: muting the Muse without effort since forever.
Could be that, right?
I love to give a name to the problems I find along my journey.
I love to call them Demons, and to imagine a battle between them and my keyboard.
Do I dare?
Am I really trying?