Let this be a warning to all of you who wish to be inspired: don’t be. Don’t wish for the Muse! She’s a terrible pixie and—and, well, you’ll see:
A wizard once loved a girl and he loved her very much. She was a darling girl and they were oh so very happy to Be. ‘Be what?’ Be together; share a joint romance, steal kisses from each other’s lips. It was a joy to hug in the morning, and a joy to hug in the night. Sweethearts! Happy, happy, happy to Be!
They were also happy to Be in the primary sense—that is to say, they were happy to exist. Life felt like a blessing, godsend that it was.
Do notice, though, that he was a wizard. And that she was not. Hmm.
What did this mean?
It meant from time to time, he was capable of astonishing her—truly astonishing her. He was also capable of astonishing himself. Because honestly, the wizard did not know why we was a wizard. Nor did he know what brought on his wonderful spells. Every once in a while—a few times a month—he would awaken with such a tremendous mood…! He would be all mischievous smiles and he would be fast of speech and quick with wit. But most of all, he would be able to manipulate the Order of Things. He could make things levitate, he could make dogs talk; he could duplicate an apple, he could fold a paper into fifty halves. He could, if he wanted to, handlessly grasp his love from the other side of the room and, with a powerful and frightening force, drag her towards him for a peck. He did not do this often, though, as it scared her terribly.
But, as I said, the wizard could not control his magic. Every once in a while—a few times a month—he was a wizard. But every other day, he was not. Try as he might, he couldn’t do a thing if the Mood wasn’t right. He couldn’t even fix a crooked stick. Not without the Muse.
Can you imagine his grief, then, when his darling fell ill? Can you imagine how much he cried as she withered away? One day, her healthy blush—her dear, little face—suddenly looked gaunt and blue and dead.
As much as he wanted to heal her, he was impotent. Wholly powerless. He couldn’t cure a cough, let alone whatever was killing his beloved.
And when she died—can you imagine the unimaginable guilt he felt?
And do you see why he became so bitter? The day he buried his lovely, he wept and wept. And all of those tears hit the ground and instantaneously bloomed into beautiful violets and gorgeous little daisies and roses and blossoms, too. It was then he could tell the Mood was right, though everything else was wrong.
…I know what you’re thinking. ‘Did he perform the miracle?!’
Ah, but the Muse didn’t let him. No, she didn’t let him. She was a jealous one and wouldn’t raise the dead.
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