I sit here, staring at the screen, lost in the emptiness of the blank page, frozen, like a lifeless, wordless, thoughtless mannequin. I feel the saliva slowly run down my lip and drop softly onto my chin and start its journey downward. How long have I been sitting here? How long have I contemplated writing words on the screen, words, any words, I know writers block sucks, but my words mean so much more than you can understand to the eagerly awaiting audience who sit waiting at my door, for something new to read. Has it been days? The knock on my door makes me jump, and I wearily look towards it.
“Go away, come back tomorrow, I’ll have words for you then,” I yell, and the banging stops. Slowly I turn back to the screen, why do they hound me? Why do they never leave me alone? I stare at the empty, blank screen again, and the banging begins anew, harder, and quicker this time. I jump up from my seat, I can feel my blood boil and I tear open the door, she stands there looking, so, god damn ravishing and walks into the room as if it were her own.
“My god, it’s worse than he thought,” she says, running a hand along a bench top and studying the fine layer of dust now on her fingers.
“Excuse me, but who in the hell are you?”
“I’m your muse,” she says proudly.
“My what?” I know what a muse is, don’t misunderstand my question, I’m not stupid, I just don’t understand what she means.
“Your muse, your inspiration, it seems you’ve lost your gift, so I’ve been sent to help you find it again.”
“I don’t understand, who sent you here and why?”
She ignores my question and looks at my computer screen, I can see the disappoint in her face due to how void of words the screen is, I rush in front of her and try to shepherd her away, even though I know it is too late for that. She gently shoves me into my chair and leans in, digging a finger into my chest.
“So what’s wrong? Where are your words?”
“I-I-I-I don’t know!” I yell, I feel something snap inside, it’s like a door has finally been opened that’s be locked for too long, I feel it burst like a dam, and eventually, out through my eyes, in other words, I cried my fucking eyes out. She slaps me across the face, not once, but twice, and, surprisingly, it helps me gain control of my emotions, not totally, but I wasn’t screaming like a one year old who needed their nappy changed anymore.
“Don’t embarrass yourself any more than you have Witness, I will help ease your ways, help the words return, give you release,” she says as she kneels down in front of me, and her hands slowly make their way towards my groin. I swallow a mouthful of air, it tears at my throat, as it makes its way down, she just smiles, unzipping my fly.
“Wait, please,” I hear myself say, placing a hand on hers as she grips me.
“You are the witness, you are the one who witnesses all things, here, there, elsewhere. Without your words, without your stories, this world stands still, let my mouth be your savior, let you write about this, and let the world continue.”
I sit here, staring at this beautiful woman, and I honestly can’t for the life of me remember why I stopped her in the first place.