A word for the confused:

There is something specific that happens when the muse comes to me. It's impossible to describe. It doesn't move in ways words can describe. It is a weaver, a spinner of words. When it moves, words travel across time and expanses too great to measure, impossible to calculate, unknowable. When it speaks, the sounds connect in words that tell a story - always a different story, always a new tale, always another path to wander down until the artist is lost to the ordinary ways of life.

Trying to describe this in words is a spider trying to express its web in webs.

The web is drawn and eye can see it or the arm can catch it or the insect can become ensnared into it. But, there is no web, no construct to uphold it or some pattern that could contain it or some tangle of lines that could reconstruct it within itself.

And so are the words of the muse, the movings of the wind, the pattern of the dream that comes in the night. A dream cannot dream again to re-dream itself. And these words cannot repeat and be rearranged to explain themselves.

Instead, the conduit must surrender itself and allow the current to flow through its tips, its ends, its tongue - or be lost.

And as such, I am waiting for the spark to reconnect. And when it does, I will write. As a lightbulb will light when the fire is forced through it, when the connection is made, when the motion deems that it should move.

So will I move when the words demand I do.