It’s hard to imagine or explain the intrinsic affect a muse has on your internal world. It becomes a mass of confusion – exposed- and at the same time subsumed by a mantle of desire and resistance.
It’s agonal and Lazarus coming together.
The breath is excoriated by unannounced whimpers of assent, how to describe this whimper or expelling of tiny gasps, it’s like breathing in and out his spirit, the sound of a crampon digging into the snow.
It never materialises just vaporises throughout the body leaving a simulacra on the inner shell, curling slowly around the organs and resting on the libido, it’s a killing sensation of rapture.
The rapture when the breath peaks is pleasure beyond thought.
And the muse is not even there. If he was it would be death by breath.
Then you let it go.
Unless the muse is a willing and participatory ingredient in the mix-you will lose control-so absolutely overpowering is this fervid entanglement- it will create actions the antithesis of what is considered the norm.
The muse-artist togetherness puts the psyche into a creative, sexually releasing energy putting demands on both of them-the key is resisting.
Resistance the hindrance to the flow of charge.
Hence creativity. It’s hard.
Why does everything pleasurable involve resistance.
Why does compliance bring out ‘Fake Plastic Trees'(radiohead).
How and why did the muse enter the infundibular holy grail of this shit holding temple?
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