Struggling with my Muse

‘Write. All rooms are quiet now. Only the moon light. No one will call. Get up, turn on the laptop, and write.’ 

‘I’m sleeping.’ 

‘You’re talking guff.’   

‘Give me a break. I’m tired.’

 

‘You’re always tired. At least, do some brainstorming on your novel while you’re playing dead under your blanket.’ 

 

...

‘Morning. Time to write.’ 

‘I’m brushing my teeth.’ 

‘You are watching yourself in the mirror, fantasising dialogues of what you should have said that or the other day. Imagine how cathartic would it be if you wrote these down.’ 

‘My fingers are wet, and I need to make breakfast.’ 

 ...

‘I’ve waited too long. Turn off the music and write.’ 

‘For heaven’s sake. I’m washing dishes.’ 

‘The wash up can wait for a minute. Open a new Word document, then turn on the dictate mode.’ 

‘I’ve tried that before. You know that it doesn’t work for me. Maybe it’s my accent. Maybe the noise of the water, falling on the metal sink.’ 

‘Maybe you need headphones with better microphone.’ 

‘Stop it. Either way, my hands and my nose are stuck here, next to the food bin. And you should encourage me to have some of the lunch I just cooked, or you should keep quiet. Instead, you always show up when I’m carrying Sisyphus rock up the hill. Why don’t you never come when I have an empty page in front of me? It seems that Homer lied. You don’t offer stories to writers. You’re just haunting us. You’re not my muse. Carl Jung said that you are my soul, or a needy, oppressive, outdated God. Leave me alone. I need to do the laundry. Some of us have flesh, and needs, and ideas, and a life. All the things that together make up the Stories that you demand as a sacrifice. Get out of here.’ 

‘Do you really want me to go?’ 

‘Don’t you try to trick me into oblivion. Never leave me. I’ll put my pages on your altar. Just please, let me make a coffee first.’ 

(Disclaimer: Not a poem)