A first hand account with my muse.

She only shows up when she wants to. But, I’ve found that she shows up more often when I go to the same place at the same time every day. 

Generally, I wont see her coming. I’ll be writing away, painfully at first then less so and from there things begin to fade. 

My fingers move faster and faster –– but not as fast as my mind. And, I begin to wonder if it’s my own thoughts I am thinking or if they are someone else’s. 

Or, perhaps, something else’s. 

When the fade begins to set in and forced words become controlled chaos, the lights in my brain begin to flicker on and off. In and out of consciousness. And, before I know it, I’m no longer working but playing. Playing in a far away but familiar place –– my subconscious. 

This is when she shows up. I sit down at a swing next to the weeping Japanese cherry blossom, my laptop in hand –– and I swing and swing and swing. And she swings next to me. Sometimes she’s drinking a glass of red wine and smoking a cigarette, other times she is reading a good book, and many times she is doing all three. 

She glances at me from time to time, not elluding to how much shes knows –– keeping ever-quiet about her universal intelligence. I look to her for answers and she gives them to me. Not by word of course, but simply by presence. 

She is there. I am writing. She is swinging. And sometimes, when we’re swinging in sync, the two of us stumble on something that won’t change the world –– but perhaps change a few people in it. 

When we discover this change, her swing begins to slow to a subtle lull and then she stands up, winks at me and is then gone. 

She’s a bad companion but a brilliant lover. 

By Cole Schafer.

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Cole Schafer