I’m not sure who killed her.
Yeah, this is some weird, death-fairy imagery I found in the bowels of the internet, but it illustrates a point as well as it can; my muse has been viciously, mercilessly murdered.
I can see her, staring up at me with blank and soulless eyes. Her mouth is open and there is some kind of milky fluid oozing out. The poor thing. She’s simply not responding and I know she’s dead. Someone killed her. It wasn’t me, and I have to find a way to revive her.
There’s the requisite listening of music, particularly something that stimulates neurotransmitters and the synapses that control them. There is of course, caffeine, which I am now consuming in massive quantities; I eagerly look over at the dead body of my muse to see if it’s helping but I see no movement. Let’s see, what other possible panacea can conjure up to revive this poor, pretty thing that is lying prostrate on the couch next to me?
She’s a pretty thing, my muse. All golden skin and sparkly hair, with a simple golden wrap that resembles something from a recent sci-fi fan fiction alternate universe that I wrote. Her hair is a shock of silver/blonde that makes me think of my original work and the transformation of a human being into something else entirely, when alien hosts who grant you the power over movement and conduction live in you without your even realizing it.
*Sigh. Her resurrection is penultimate in my ever-increasing list of priorities. There is nothing more important and not even my laundry list of dreams, hobbies and career goals can stand in the way! ‘Course, if you get right down to it, without her none of those things can be attended to anyway.
Damn it. I feel like Elliot Stabler, looking for a culprit who keeps eluding my grasp with inexhaustible skill and determination.
Yes… yes that resembles me now, as I gaze pensively out the slats of dusty window blinds, promising retribution with every little quirk at the corner of my mouth. Minus the five-head – apologies Chris Meloni.
Meanwhile, manuscript(s) lay open on my desktop with no chance for the salvation of substance and form: just neglected and pitiful files full of Microsoft Word’s off-white space.
There is, of course, that ever-present question. Who killed you, my precious muse? I will find him – or her, mind you. And I will destroy this person with all the pitiless violence of Sektor from Mortal Kombat.
Low Punch. Run. Run. Block.
Oh… oh, yes. My caffeinated behind is squeeing with pre-teen delight, you sanguine-armored assassin, you.
(Elliot Stabler/Law & Order Image (C) NBC Studios)
(Sektor/Mortal Kombat 3 (C) Property of Midway Games, 1995)