Darkness surrounds as my muse steps into the light.
Creativity has alluded me these many days. Beauty is everywhere but my desire has died. I feel nothing. Perhaps my greatest fear is realized--my artful soul is stilled, I cannot make beauty fly onto the canvas. No spark. The critics were right, my talent was just a flash, not real. Some fantastic trick that will never come again.
She moves, only slightly, the air whispers as her robe drops away. The stirrings begin; or are they imagined? Such beauty must be preserved. Perhaps they were wrong? My brushes appear the paint comes alive my fingers are flying before my very eyes. The beauty has spurred me to life once again. The artist's alive--for now it would seem...