The creative muse.

Her face and name is always in the shadows of the individual interactions that cross my path. 

The thrill of the beauty in the softness of Shadows that is her appeal. 

She flirts and tempts me most during the night hours where she can comfortably expose more of herself. 

Like a young teen who has just discovered their first sleepless dial up nights wide awake fervently jacking it.

Wandering into class in an ecstatic foggy haze where even your breath seams to buzz with the feeling of being too alive. 

In those Ohh too short of nights might have been when I first felt her power.
Her ability to leave you feeling so empty and spent. 

The uncertainty that she will make an appearance next time I need her makes me feel like a desperate jealous lover that can't get enough of it.
The perfect website that you had spent all night desperately hoping existed, 
only to see the early morning light coloring the polluted morning clouds brilliantly. 
The birds sounding their alarm that daylight was coming and the muse had to return where no one could see her.

Kiln thoughts

Smashing knuckles against the sharp gritty walls of the tomb as the chisel misses it's mark and slides wide.  The weight of the mallet only stops when the knuckles come to a dragging stop on the shattered rocky surface. 
My muse of misery that is apart of so much of my waking hour thoughts.  She grows stronger as I grow weaker.  I'm a slave to the miracles of beauty that she creates. 
She is mocking,  cold,  and terribly cutting.  There is no choice of anything better.  Addicted to creating at all costs,  regardless of the cost. 
Although related, I believe that the the muse is not you. 
There can be long periods of complete silence from the muse and regardless of how I try to tempt her,  I only find that I know nothing about her.
Maybe it's her cruel unpredictable nature that is so appealing.  The thrill of the unknown is intoxicating

Dreaming

I love observing time.  Each dash and line is in it's own way a record of time. While there is often something of interest that initially catches my eye,  I feel like that works as a framework or skeleton that that time is measured or built upon. The best measurements are those that are could be measured in some way. Snowflakes,  leaves, any small object counting the seconds away of life.  I feel like I'm simply measuring the way I interact with my world.  Every heartbeat, hair that falls, or breath is simply a physical representation of the microscopic change that is our cells and mitochondria that is ticking away until this form that we inhabit transforms into something else.  Watching any entire short life of an animal start to finish, really makes you question your own mortality and what is really important in life.  Maybe the purpose of life is in the moments where we take naps with our dogs?

Names

There is a lot of power in names.  The bugs, flowers, and shapes in this image I do not know how to identify.  My attempt to capture a piece of there essence is similar in our attempt to label and categorize each other.  A swarm of insects are unique in the swarm that they occupy, unique in their individual biology,  and are unique in there constant state of change. 
As soon as we learn someone's name, we immediately begin looking for labels to identify and categorize them.  We then go about looking to explain our labels to others in an attempt to fortify and confirm their legitimacy. 
In reality are we anything more than a swarm of molecules and atoms gathering together in a specific pattern for a very short time?  Are we any greater or better than a swarm of insects?