The muse looked out through the unseeing eyes of the writer as he sat morosely at his desk, wondering what to write. He had grumbled for nearly two weeks that she had 'gone walkabout' yet again, and that he was devoid of inspiration. What on Earth could he write about? Inspiration simply would not come. Chewed pencils and brown ring stains from many cups of coffee littered the desktop, and still the blank white paper lay unmarked before him, a silent reproach for his lack of results.
As he sat, sighing, head in hands, the muse saw the sun rise across the green fields, sparkling with morning dew. She heard the dawn chorus as scores of birds awoke to the new day, their chirping, chattering joy at still being alive, sharing the good news. A great band of gleaming gold split the sky as the sun pierced the light cloud, and the day lit up in all its glory.
Millions of insects swarmed and bustled, buzzed and danced in the warming air, and tiny animals scurried hither and yon about their small business, eager to find food, and shelter from predators. Beady eyes shone and whiskers twitched. Out in the field innumerable plants worked their magic, turning sunlight, water, fresh air and a smidgeon of dust into glories beyond belief; intricate and beautiful flowers, fat, ripe seeds, leaves of all shapes and sizes in brilliant shades of green. Down in the dark soil moved trillions more organisms, all the vast panoply of nature in perfect harmony, blindly bearing the torch of life down the generations.
And still the writer sat, wrestling with his lack of inspiration. Whatever could he write about? Nothing was happening. The muse looked on, silently.
Mountain ranges, where great birds soared through the crystal-clear air, and the slow, slow rocks crept and crystallised, changed and eroded over eons. Rivers ran, seas surged and entire continents rose and fell, moved and metamorphosed. The magnificent blue pearl of Earth swung silently through the vast darkness of space, around the colossal nuclear furnace of the sun, itself only one of millions of billions in the endless cosmos.
And still the writer glared at the empty, mocking paper before him, and the muse waited. Somewhere beyond this small suburban house seven billion people lived and moved and had their being. Seven billion stories of life, love, tragedy and joy, struggle and triumph, loss and disaster, inspiration and achievement. Each was connected somehow to all the others, and to every living thing, and to the whole mighty and infinitely complex universe through the ages. All the myriad works and wonders of Man; the art, science, mathematics, chemistry, technology, music, law, society, fashion, education, architecture, religion, language, writing, philosophy, cuisine and culture were there for the consideration of the curious mind, the conscious mind itself perhaps the greatest wonder of them all.
And still the writer sat in despair, the muse silent.
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