Ever since my Muse stabbed my Mind’s Eye and left in a huff, my world has been dull; expressionless. Maybe I was a bit too hasty. I’m not taking back what I said. It needed to be said. But at present, the only things over which I have to obsess are my own compulsive tendencies, so that I couldn’t even direct myself if I wanted to. Fresh inspiration will have to come from outside of my mind, I reckon. It will have to come from a different source of pain. Do I just sit back and watch other people suffer, then? Pretend that they’re me through empathy? Gather from their contorted faces how my words are to look? Or am I speaking too soon? Is personal inspiration lurking just around the corner? Oh jeeze. Am I wishing pain upon myself and others in the name of good writing? Is this my way of attracting my Muse’s attention? I’d escape this cycle if I only knew how. So, for now, I’ll write terribly boring philosophy. It will be my purgatory. Maybe once I work through my transgressions, I’ll earn back that poetic pain. I’ll sit on a cloud so high, my tears will evaporate long before they hit the ground. And I’ll re-collect them in an image open for all to interpret. What’s that? A rabbit? A dinosaur? Your favorite bully trapped in an Hieronymus Bosch hell-scape screamming for sweet mercy? It won’t matter if your sight doesn’t match up with my inspiration, the One that won’t come back. Whatever you’ll see will be real. The truth of the matter doesn’t matter with clouds. So long as we all know they’re clouds, they’ll be for us signs of commensurability; significations of our equitability in terms of the wholeness we’re all missing. Emptiness, as it stands, needs no translation. Without my Muse, y’all still know what I mean, right?
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