Pick Up That Pen

Was it insanity or brilliance that stood calling my name? I woke out of a deep sleep, disoriented, desiring an explanation. My heart was beating triple time. Was this a heart attack then? Don’t be any crazier than you have been, urged my persnickety muse. Let’s get up and write something. I knew it would not be anything that could appeal to the masses. I have never related to any of them. They want clean sheets and neat drawers. I am not one to iron clothes or sweep a driveway. The messier the room, the better; I have a hoarder’s habits. Don’t write that! Said my muse. My anti-muse laughed, wanting me to. My heart had stopped beating now. Not entirely, probably, but it had slowed down. Pick up that pen! I rolled my eyes at the voice. Cognizant that whatever I wrote today I would not recognize tomorrow. I am a frenzied writer, channeling spirit, insanely clairaudient.