I can’t sleep. It’s past midnight and my muse has come back to haunt me. She wants me to stay up and write for her, feeding her insatiable need for attention while I lose myself in her gaze. She talks to me and whispers so many beautiful things, it’s hard to resist her. I drift on her smile and do my best to keep her content, but deep inside I know she’s getting impatient with me.
It’s not my fault, I cry out loud. I have to work! I can’t make a living just by staying in, writing like a freak! Well, maybe one day I will. But right now, it’s all a distant dream.
She looks away, acting annoyed. I’m sorry for being so rational, maybe I should listen to my artistic side a little more.
I still have so much to do. It’s becoming difficult to deal with everything at the same time.
My muse pats me on the shoulder and reassures me. She will be there waiting until I have enough time to dedicate to her.
And then with a wink she adds: and stop playing with your cats. They’re cute, but let’s be serious. Who’s the real inspiration here?