My muse is an insomniac. Put down the espresso, Muse. It might be time to taper off.
I don't really like my muse. We haven't bonded. We're not besties. We have a semi-cordial working relationship. No mutual admiration society. No reciprocal back-scratching sessions. Just a nod in the elevator. An impersonal card at Christmas, name stamped, not signed.
Muse is sometimes embarrassing, flitting about in her lavender tights, crown of flowers flouncing about her limp auburn curls, cajoling me to set words to monitor. She does not realize that I can't be forced. In the human world, she would be that eighth-grade bully who gives you a Wet Willie, a titty-twister, a horse-bite, an Indian burn, a flat tire, and that thing where you bend your knees behind someone else's to make them collapse while standing. Shame on Muse!
Between 4:30 and 5:30 this morning, Muse made sure I could not sleep. Swept away all the hard work completed by The Sandman earlier in the wee hours. Put words and ideas in my mind. Played them on a loop. Ground her bony knee into the small of my back, tickled my philtrum with one of her detached crown flowers. A regular Olympic-gold-medal-class pest.
I might write down her idea tomorrow. Just to show her that we're working on MY terms. Not hers.