The inanimate muse.

from now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

The other kind, the living kind are far too egocentric and predictably unpredictable. The other kind sees the artists canvas or the poets paper purely as a looking glass and a servant to her self perceived beauty. The poet must describe her with words of glowing colour, the artist must lay on strokes of lyrical brushwork. Both pandering to her vanity.

from now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

I shall be the one moving for a change and write truthfully about an object rooted to the spot as apposed to trying to make some sense and some poetry from a flighty creature darting about my room demanding insincere flattery dressed up as honesty.

From now on I shall stick to the inanimate muse.

I shall be the one to pack my bags when the moment suits and take my art elsewhere (to places where suffering only exists in the paintings on the walls or in old dusty books describing Circe or Calypso). Free from suffering for my art I shall luxuriate in the suffering of others at the hands of the animate muse.