It was Shakespeare who once wrote, “Oh, for a muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention!” If only we had divine inspiration would we discover the most perfect realm of the imagination. In many ways, I have lost my muse. It probably should not have been my muse to begin with, but what writer has the power to choose their own inspiration? Does it not choose the writer? Can nature and beauty be captured and forced into the artist’s submission?
Can we demand by any crude or uncouth human manner the understanding of the enigmatic realms of creativity? Of course not. But where now shall I find a new muse? For he, as my muse, alone as my muse, only as my muse—I miss. I shall find a new inspiration… the dawn is kind to a contemplative soul and the stars nurture the hungering heart. For what was the muse of the King? What inspired His own heart as He created the sapphires seas and the soaring, snowcapped mountains? Might the Master of all Muses, be the fountain everlasting of imagination? 
No comments:
Post a Comment