Muse.
She take many forms. She is a wisp of cerulean air. She is an amethyst jackal in the dead of night. A red fox, watching from a throne of embers. A lone she-wolf, fur of darkest ebony and eyes deeper than the ocean itself. A fiery-haired imp that hides in my shadow. Sometimes she is my shadow. Other times She is nothing but a voice within my mind.
She sings to me. Her voice is sweeter than those of angels, more compelling than that of Sirens. She sings of life and adventure, of love and war. Her voice guides me through the intricate twists and turns of my mind’s unending maze, She is the fresh breath of wind that breaks the doldrums of monotony, breathing light into the cobwebbed depths of creativity. When at last I fall asleep, Her haunting lullabies follow me into my dreams.
She is a storyteller, and a master at Her craft. She can take the smallest detail - the crack of thunder that follows a lightning strike - and create a tale worthy of Calliope herself. Her songs have freed me from the heavy chains of Reality, and I am Free. Free to sing, to fly, to dream. When I am lost, Her voice guides me home.
Her voice can soothe the savage beast that rages deep within. She can calm the mournful cries of my soul. She guides the pen in my hand, the thoughts in my head, the words on the page. When I write, when I think, when I stay up late at night wondering what my purpose is and if my dreams will ever be realized, She is there. She comforts me when all seems lost, when tears unending threaten to flow. She is a glimpse of Winter in the stifling heat of Summer, a breath of cold air in the stagnant, suffocating heat. She is the guide, guardian, conscious, friend and ally.
Muse.