Namaste

I know for a fact that the lore of the creative muse is not mythical. I happen to have one myself in the fetching form of an olive-skinned femme fatale. She has pillow-y lips, zooma-zoom-zoom rump cheeks and a rhythmical hip thrust that could break a man mid-mambo. Her acorn-sized, cocoa eyes are as arousing and welcoming as a sun-kissed, temperate ocean. When she graces you with a smile, your world becomes so much more than a simple oyster. She neutralizes fear; she discourages boundaries; she cleanses, sanitizes, blesses. She is heaven’s gatekeeper and the caregiver of the universe. For a reason understood only by the cosmic powers that be, she has chosen me as the apprentice friend to whom she reveals [almost, some things are sacred] all. I know both the character she has developed (what Hollywood coins ‘based on a true story’) and the resilient, but oft vulnerable, maiden beneath the cloak; the innocent, untamable, commanding, genius of an edifying wellspring.

She is my muse for many reasons, at the forefront of which is her mastery of expression. She breathes inspiration into a vacant keyboard. If she ever discontinued my complimentary access to the verbal manifestation of her emotional impulses, I fear my writing would evaporate. My ability to place two unlikely words in the same sentence would be lost to apprehension. My blog is the mosquito to her elephant; her posts are the necessary red river of platelets from which this Stream subsists.

This, my dearest Namaste, is my significantly more befitting commentary.