It’s the cool rush of fire shooting down the limbs, filling up the head, the heart, the page.
The spirit.
The muse, some people call it.
But what’s in a name? said the muse, to the writer who sat his desk once upon a time, dipping and scribbling, waiting for his words to fly.
It’s bigger than a name, surely— this mysterious, creative force.
It’s a train that barrels through the writers imagination, often with no known destination.
It’s a one-sided phone call from the heavens, where no words are spoken, but millions are heard.
And written.
And felt.
Music. Books. We’ve all felt those.
It’s a feeling like no other, this force that takes the creative folk of this world. Magic in a million whispers; an offer they’ll either drop or fly into the sunset with.
It’s a chest flooded with light and a dare to fill a blank page.
It’s an epiphany.
A promise.
A gift.
A gift for writers and a gift for the readers of their words.
A gift for humanity, is what it is.
Mysterious and strange.
And overflowing with wonder.
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