The muse is gone

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For a while there, my mind was filled with stories that begged to be written. If anything, my problem was that I didn't have time to convert the stories in my head into narratives that would make sense to a reader. (IMHO, that's the real work of writing.) So my disk is filled with half-written stories. A lot of them, of course, I never intended to post, they were just to express and perhaps feel better about the pain and confusion I live with.

But somewhen, the stories went away. It happened sometime after I went full-time, a year and a half ago. It's true, I'm still struggling with my life; some of it has to do with adjusting to living as a woman with the psyche and body that I have, some of it with the PTSD I still carry around from 50-60 years ago and am now (I hope) on the road to healing from. But I was struggling a lot more before I went full-time, and the stories came to me then.

It's not just writing, either. I used to feel almost a compulsion to play music. Guitar, flute, piano, and everything from classical to pop songs. Music is for me a route into my soul which bypasses all the mishegoss that life has glued to me. But now it doesn't work for me. I sit down to play a piece on the piano, or something on the guitar, and all I feel is a vague desire to go and read the telephone book instead. It's almost like losing the will to live.

Muse, did I do something to drive you away? Is there something I can do to encourage you to return? All the color has gone out of life since you are gone, all is dark and grey and dirty.

Muse, please come back to me.

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