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My Muse is Social Distancing From Me
She is refusing to come out of quarantine, but I am going forward with or without her
What happened to the me that was writing, writing, writing? The me who had stories to tell, wisdom to impart, experiences to share? Where is the me that would wake up in the middle of the night with a story idea, or two or three, and have to get up and write them down lest they be lost?
It seems that part of me is taking the social distancing orders seriously, and has now left to hole up somewhere until it’s safe again to come out.
As the world has been stunned by the shock and awe campaign of a virus, she has retreated as far into her safe space as she can. But I need her to come out. I miss her.
Before the world shifted and creaked and made horrid scraping noises (remember the Titanic movie?) she was sure she knew what was what, and felt like she was getting this thing called life figured out. She had been battered and bruised but had begun to see the lessons in her life, and felt they were important enough to share.
Now, when I try to coax her out she shouts at me, “What do I have to say that could possibly matter to anyone?” She pouts like a petulant three year old, and pulls herself deeper into her hole. Leave me be, she says. Who…
