There are times that I think muses are mute. They drift on the wind, unable to speak, to talk, to sing. I think they are figments that we reach toward. Their hair drifts on the wind each strand a new melody, a new thought, a new story. We all reach out trying to touch that hair and we all fail.

In the end, no one touches the hair of the muse, we all constantly reach for it. We strive to grab onto that perfect melody, those perfect words, that perfect thought. We strive, and through this action, we create small and imperfect things.

Even imperfection can be beautiful.

There is no story that has brought the world to its knees and made us sing the same song. Nothing has yet crossed the distance and the ideas that separate us: the vast space between minds and bodies. So, we sit, separated by small and imperfect, yet beautiful things, trying to explain to each other and trying to understand those ungraspable strands of hair.

The muses must be mute.

Posted by Utopia at April 6, 2006 01:02 PM

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Lack of roleplaying muses abound. Lack of all muses abound really. [Read More]

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Posted by: Vesper at April 6, 2006 05:56 PM

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