Good news! My muse didn't kill themself, they were just on extended vacation!

So usually "a muse" is a beautiful woman. Now I can appricate a beautiful woman, you got it baby, flaunt it honey. It's all cool with me, never been the jealous type. But my muse doesn't fit the norm. Why should it? Nothing else I do does. So indeed this scary man brings out the creativity I deny myself from expressing. Haha, I need something wicked to force me with sheer fear. Do it, or he's sticking around until you do.

It seems he has given me the ability to write again. The writers block I've been hit with for the past 10 fucking years has lifted. Poetry is in my soul, something has taken up residence in the waste lands. This is very exciting for me because it sybolizes some sort of hope.

Writing has always been the most intimate thing for me. I lost my passion for it and it stopped letting me use it's lingustics to make beauty or pain or whatever they hell else I wanted. But to me, beauty is pain. I know I sound like a masochist...and perhaps I am. Given some of my expirences I could earn that title. But seriously there is a certain beauty in pain. It's hard to see but it's there. You find it by opening up the doors and allowing yourself to express it in your own way. The insperation it brings produces something of beauty. Even if it's scary or haunting.

Anyways, I don't feel I can properly express myself on this one. I lack correct words. Perhaps if I put any sort of effort into where I was going with the posts I could plan ahead. But I dunno. There is something that seems very strange about staging what you're going to write about. I've always done it by random, dating back to school essays. So who knows? I don't even care to tell you the truth.