There’s something about inspiration, about the supposed “gift” from a muse. I know she means well, but does she ever think of how inspiration feels to humans?
It is fear, it is terror at losing the incredible thoughts you have before putting them to use.
It is indescribably joy at the rush of feelings within you, wonder at being able to conceive such a thing, and being able to hold momentary mastery over that thing you love so much.
It is anger at having to drop whatever it is you have happen to be doing in order to cater to this bursting creation.
It is crushing, irreparable sadness at the thought of letting go all of these feelings you have once the inspiration has past. For hours after the loss, we are in mourning.
Yet most of all, and perhaps most importantly, it is insanity. The mind is lost in the soul which is in turn facing the muse and listening to her every word. This is when we laugh, cry, shout, or hang our heads in defeat without truly knowing why.
Then when it’s gone, when all the feelings have shot from you into a blaze of glory on whatever might be your medium, there is a profound pause. You feel nothing, you hands are numb and your expression is blank. You just poured everything you had onto whatever you were working on, and you find that you’ve still come up short.
And that, that last thought before nothingness, is the pain that we all feel when we realize in our darkest moments that nothing will ever be as great as what we feel when we’re writing or painting or taking photographs; making movies, designing fashions, singing beautiful ballads…when it’s all over, the pain we feel is the cyclical epiphany that it can never be perfect enough. As artists, our goal is to look into the face of God and know what we truly are. Through art we try and see God, we try and feel It with every brush stroke. Somehow God always eludes us and makes us fools. We die young, we have horrific vices and many of us lead lives bordering or sunk into poverty.
How do we survive? No lover will ever be as good as the muse, nothing can ever bring greater pleasure than her. She is jealous, and she is commanding. It is the muse, It is God, It is the only one who can make us fall to our knees in submission because we want to Know. Until Her we are above everyone else, or we feel that we are. She is the only one we answer to, the only one whose orders we will obey without question because of the pleasure we are granted from doing so. And so must be the ultimate desire of an artist is deep, endless pleasure and gratification. We want the orgasm to last forever, and feel unsatisfied and disappointed when we look into our lover’s eyes and realize that they are not God. The face we gaze into can tell us nothing we don’t already know, and so is useless. Not that we can’t love, but anything will be secondary to our first love.