The muse that has sustained me for almost 2 years has fizzled, disappeared, vanished, walked into the fading, tangerine sunset on the far edge of my creative spectrum out of my grasping reach like a person drowning trying to climb the cold, entombing water to the light of life…my muse has become invisible to my naked eyes, my heart my soul…my soul…what is soul? It is the mysterious ghost that rises to heaven when earthly life sinks into the cold dank earth. It is the essence of our lives that invisibly yet powerfully, magically connects with other souls seeking completion during our time without whom a neither is complete, always fragmented, an old, yellowed jigsaw puzzle confined to a box on the high shelf because it’s missing the final piece rendering it without value. It is the mystery captured in the lyrical words of poets, of would be poets (for all of us because at our core we are all poets and we understand that truth when we finally muster the truth to peer into our souls, express our uniqueness) seeking to comprehend the miraculous, comprehend love for nothing is more miraculous than love. My creative soul, a living entity sustained by creativity, feels famished. My creative soul, a breathing entity fed oxygen by the magic of birthing a new essay, a new line, the right phrase is choking on a vacuum of words. My creative soul is withering, a crimson rose turned brown dropping petals like dry tears onto the cold heart of a frost covered earth. It’s time to stop waiting for the muse to stroke me into a vital life and begin the hard work of discipling myself for daily writing which will birth the muse and feed my soul.