My muse is sitting next to me tonight, drinking rooibos tea and flashing her long, elegant legs oh-so-deliberately. She pretends to inspire me to write, but I find it awe-fully hard to write with her watching me with that slightly mischievous smile on her lips, and those long legs that lead to paradise that I keep noticing out of the corner of my eye as they cross and uncross. I know she is unattainable; she just enjoys teasing me; playing with my mind; making me desire what she cannot deliver, and so I am forced to write.
The moon is shining into the window of my office. It is so bright that the pair of Owls who live in the Acacia tree are visible. Their intermittent calls are mournful and sometimes make me want to cry.
My three year old daughter woke up just now and I picked her up and carried her outside. I sang "My Bonnie lies over the Ocean", softly, about thirty times. That always puts her back to sleep. I think it might be the rumble it makes in my chest; she always presses her ear up against me. It might be because it is a familiar sound: I have sung it to her since she was one day old and it has always made her calm, and put her to sleep. I struggled to put her back into her bed. I just held her and couldn't get over the fact that this little blond cupid is really put into my care for a short while; that she is my daughter. I felt as if I could hold her in my arms all night and walk under the moon.
Back in my office, although I should be sleeping. It's almost midnight and I promised I would take the family to the beach tomorrow, so I shouldn't be tired otherwise I will be grumpy. I cannot sleep now, I know myself. I am in that place where my ghosts know there is less of a barrier between their world and mine. I live with them every day, but it is on nights like this that they talk to me. They are friendly ghosts, they don't blame me for surviving, I do a brilliant job at that. They sometimes remind me of my promise. I keep it. Not a day goes bye that I don't remember them. I don't think I am going to cry any more, then I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks.
Writing has so quickly become a solace. The ghosts don't mind that I have turned some of them into characters. Some clamour for the chance, it gives them a chance to live again.
My muse has wet cheeks. She reaches out and wipes a tear from mine. I can almost feel her finger brush against me. She smiles again, but this time her eyes are shining with sadness.
I turn back to the keyboard to write.
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