The Ramblings of November 27th

There are those times in your life when you feel so philosophical that you just know you aren't yourself.  It’s this strange hyper-aware feeling, like every molecule in your body is completely aware of whatever your mind is aware of.  It’s sparked by something: a picture, a song, a movie, a book, a show.  It’s like a muse uses this feeling to speak to you, to have her art made, as if she possesses you for a time, fills you up so that you are temporarily more than the sum of your parts.  And it’s so strange, because she takes pieces away from you too—feelings, memories, reason, sanity, thought.  And it’s so strange, because she gives those same pieces back to you.  And it’s so strange because there’s no point to it.
I, in this moment, am all thought, no action.  I, in this moment, am reason without purpose.  I feel the potential, that gnawing feeling she inspires, and I know that the only thing I can do with it is write.  Write and I will be free.
But she’s selfish, isn't she?  For where in this mess of jumbled up runes am I becoming?  Where in this hail storm of thoughtless words and wordless thoughts does she give me anything in return?  I am a vessel.  She uses me.  I am thankful for this.  Why?  Why fill me with drive for something that, in the end, gives me nothing—no happiness, no ending, no sense of release?  Writing of him will not make him mine, and writing of others will not make me theirs.  Wanting is nothing—another vessel she may use, just as important as my mind, my limbs.  Wanting, desire—they are man’s most fantastic strength and his greatest downfall.
But I am woman.  I am not to feel desire.  I am not to want.  I am to be wanted.  I am to be pursued.  I am to be won, taken, stolen.  But what man fights for me?  Where is that brutish gentleman, that noble thug?  The muse, she invents him.  She recalls a memory long since forgotten by all others.  She thrives on the pain and joy of eternity in equal measure.  But from all of time to the infinitesimally smallest of seconds, she thrives.  In time, in love, in personalities, in memories…she works equally well in all mediums—the true artist.