by Branson Neuman
Imagine your favorite piece of art.
Recite, write, build, mold, and fold,
Create the visage of the art you love.
Whether it’s a poem or song, they all came from muses.
Muses so fluid they ooze throughout music. They roll like soft waves on white sand in the heat. They bubble in blood blowing fuses and beats. Muses like mental models and molds.
Reflections of desires.
Your favorite artist processes thoughts of genius by allowing the golden gears of god to grind
Into their cerebrums.
Humming to the harmony of the human heart beat, these gears drive the machine.
As if by magic the folds and creases in your brain takes the strength of
Thousands of nuclear warheads.
Just to fire synapses.
BANG!
Relax. You will succeed.
Many find pressure in writing but… Stop.
Are you still stressed?
Imagine instead, for a second you’re able to be transported to a rainforest.
Dark, wet, royal blue skies are heavy with hot vapor.
You stand by a large leaf.
The pattern of pattering precipitation persists.
Possibly pausing only to pass by your peripheral.
You observe the drops in slow motion.
Each one tells a story.
Each drop has a tale.
Each drop came from somewhere,
That no matter how much it causes him to regret and feel shame,
He will represent.
Each drop whether a prom king or the kid in the locker has a song to sing.
The drop will eventually hit the ground.
The ground will soak up the drop and provide for a seed.
The seed will grow fruit and the fruit will be eaten by the nightingale.
And the nightingale will sing symphonies of the sweetest song
And give inspiration to the music,
We listen to on our harshest days.
The sculptures we observe.
The animations we watch.
The plays we perform.
All of it comes from the muse before it.
So take a deep breath.
Close your eyes.