• It is by rare chance, no, circumstance, that a writer should come by something exceptional of which to write. Perhaps the word 'something' is false...'someone' works far better.

    I am a writer, or at the very least I play at it, and such an extraordinary happenstance presented its opportunistic face some years ago.

    This I speak of is what every aspiring author, musician, or artist could possibly place all their hopes and dreams upon. That which breathes life into their deepest soul.

    No, not the human soul, for that is a different entity in and of its own. The mortal soul carries on to Heaven, Nirvana, Valhalla, or far below the surface of packed brown earth to reincarnate into a tree, if that is one's belief. Hell, or any creed's equal, I prefer not to delve into as it seems bloody awful a place for even the worst criminals.

    Indeed, the soul I speak of resides deeper yet within the envelope of the human mind. It exists not to reach higher, more glorified realms, but to remain earth-bound forever because this is where it draws happiness.

    The creative soul yearns to leave behind a legacy; stepping stones upon which others may one day dare to tread and follow and admire. Masterpieces have been left in the wake of their creators, infamous even in their deaths. Mozart, Shakespeare, and Da Vinci, all great men of their times, praised now and forever for their accomplishments.

    Yet what all of these brilliant souls do not have in common is the importance which allows them a simple stroke of genius. If all were blessed with this, there would fall an inordinate amount of talent and skill and none would ever be revered over any other.

    A seed, one to fertilize an otherwise barren capsule, and in consummating shall grow into the liveliest work a person may create in their lifetime. Or, just outside of it, as some cases may be.

    Where should one discover such a seed?

    It is not as though gardens spur forth plants of inspiration, twining above garden gates to reach out their vined fingers at prospective candidates.

    The plow and farmer cannot reap it in that which they have sown, contrary to all of the hard work they endure.

    Nor can this be purchasable by trade, lest one were extremely fortunate at a slave auction- and I should very well hope those days are long gone. (Well, in most respectable places, it is).

    This seed must be implanted by a feminine hand, and not just any will do.
    Taking a beautiful woman from a street corner may not earn any body very much, save for perhaps an itching groin, all depending on what one's intentions are.

    It really all has to do with luck.

    Whether the creative soul belongs to a man or to a woman, it matters not; the soul is an androgynous being which is in requirement of a special female touch. She may be old and haggard, ugly beyond description, or youthful and spry, with loveliness captured only by a poet's illuminating words. From swaddling babe to a crone knocking upon Death's door, the limitations for age are irrelevant.

    What must matter most is that she is embraced and treated kindly, or else she may leave the seed to rot and die within- if one is lucky enough to have it implanted to begin with.


    Nothing of magnitude will ever come forth from it to leave its mark upon the world.

    Have you ever heard of one Pietro Valentino?

    Or perhaps Almira Sable?

    I would think not, and it is likely none have ever heard of these names unless they were close blood relatives and friends!

    They, an artist and a dancer, respectively, did not accept she who came to them. In spite of all she deigned to dote, they gave her only disdain and even with their hard work and dedication to their crafts, faded into time unknown.

    Have you grasped it yet?

    The role of such a creature's capabilities...has your own mind made itself aware of her title? Of her power?

    It is easy enough to play guessing games with, though I never meant to create riddles.

    The epitome of a wonderful mind, of inspiration and talent once lay in the hands of five women with the responsibilities of guiding the most gifted potentials toward their grand achievements.

    In their ancient time they were known as 'Muses', and all of the greats were visited by these brilliant deities. Their number of five eventually grew, their power dispersing and physical forms vanishing once the number of needy talent seemed to expand.

    Still, not all souls are fortunate enough to ever find their muse.

    Nevertheless, should one come upon her, she ought to be held in highest regards. To lose a muse is to lose one's very heart, to lose one's mind, I would even dare say. Once she has gone she is nigh uncatchable.

    The most touching pieces came from those who had naught but passionately deep love for a muse...

    Each word written, step taken, note composed, or lyric spoken flow with the essence of the soul's bond to its muse. She exists in it all...

    ...and yet, sometimes she will disappear without warning. Without any wrong doing of her assigned soul's part.

    A rare occasion it is, for a muse to abandon a perfectly attentive mate.

    In most cases, the mate falls to despair and he or she renders themselves incapable of ever producing a masterful or meaningful piece again. They become bitter, empty shells of who they once were, silently peering to empty streets or starless skies in hopes she who departed shall return.

    And then there are the others...those who refuse to let go so soon. Those who have loved much too strongly to merely roll over and give up. Those...such as myself...who would search on through to the ends of the world, or the universe, to find her.

    My muse has long left me, and I have scoured all of Europe trying to catch her again.

    I have revisited her last known residence, and I have cried her name out in my dreams, waking to the cloud's rain falling as tears upon me.

    She is quite a woman apart from the rest- and whether or not she realized her hold over me is unimportant.

    Her beauty is of legendary capacity; her words are the most influential; her voice the sweetest bell...her heart and soul, immortal.

    She has left many a man over hundreds of years past to wilt as a rose in winter's biting cold. Her behavior has been recorded as merciless, belying an angel's face. Those who have fallen by her hand have only done so out of their anguish of her disappearance.

    The great poet John Keats must have known a fallen man or two in his time, stricken by the Muse's brutality. In 1820, he imparted a composition of graceful knowledge to describe this very woman...

    'La Belle Dame sans Merci', or, the Beautiful Woman Without Mercy.

    He dismissed the poem while others scorned or treasured it.

    What of her story? What of mine?

    It is not widely believed that immortality is possible, and yet when no one knows where to search, how can this be proven false?

    In my situation, it is more of if one knows where to travel on holiday in an attempt to escape the madness of the world.

    My boundless imagination had seemed to reach its limits. The well of anything remotely original had ultimately dried up.

    So I hid myself away into the wilderness, the great outdoors where nature could encompass my senses wholly...where I might try to rediscover my own creative soul.

    There, I met her.

    A fantastically comely woman with nothing but charm and laughter to offer.

    It never occurred to me to ask where she came from, or how she came to find me. All that mattered was that she was there to plant her inspirational seed.

    From then forth, I was smitten. With her voice, her words, and what my mind would suddenly brim over with...images and thoughts like I had never before experienced.

    My downfall burdened me unexpectedly when she left me, as she had done so many times before. Yet I swore then I would find her again, my merciless muse, and even now, I swear I still shall.