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The Wondering Muse

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As I read the words in the story before me, I remind myself they were created in the mind of another, and now they breathe life onto the pages before me.  If I let my thoughts speak too loud, I will become aware the words are not real and live now in my heart and soul as I breathe life into them when I read them.  They couldn’t possibly be real, for no person could be as this one is.  No situation exists as this one does.  Why can we imagine that which cannot be? Or can it be, and we are just too daft to know how to bring it into existence?  Or are we unwilling to try?

Stories bring unreality to reality but only in words not in action.  Why can’t a love exist as such we find in the greatest love story?  Are we really incapable of such love or too lazy to produce it?  Why can’t adventure be around the corner as we find in the stories we read or are we too settled to find it?

Why can authors, ordinary people at that, imagine that which cannot be?  We are the weavers of words, the wand of magic, the gentle touch of the hand of love, yet we cannot seem to write the world in such a way to exist as the greatest love stories or write it in the discovery of the world untouched and unseen in the beauty we blindly walk by and through each day.  Wouldn’t it be lovely if I, or you, or anyone could be the magic writer of the world and make it beautiful?  Make that which we imagine become true.  What a wonderful thing that would be!

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