It's...

It's the fresh pages of a new journal, the crisp pages waiting. The story is hidden, and it is up to you to find it. You want to reach in and just grab on to something solid to bring it into the real world as hills and valleys of ink impressions. You know, the promise something good might spring out of the pages and lure you in, seduce you, then she will become your master.

It's not for you to decide.

Then it's spending the better part of the day writing down the story you have to tell, wishing you could show her splendour in a way more fitting than your own writing. You stress over every word and every comma, hoping that it will please the invisible audience. In truth, you want to please yourself, or maybe just her.

The story will hold a knife at your throat, and whisper sweet nothings till you get it down on somewhere people can see. If you do, it will reward you, if you don't, it will kill you. Either way it feels like your losing your breath, or maybe in fact like the air is solid.

It's not for you to decide.

She's your master, and will control you in every way possible. she will make you edit, she will make you try to be worthy of her presence, her gift. This muse is one hell of a sadist. She thrives when your under pressure, and laughs when you can't work fast enough.

And yet, you enjoy this; you never thought you were much of a masochist though. It's not worth it, but you work anyway. You try to keep up with each sweet nothing that passes through your ear, the story's breath against your neck. You keep writing.

It's not for you to decide.

And eventually, she will go away, and you will want her back. But as much as you try to plead and bargain she's not coming back until she is ready. Some days while she's gone, you might even feel the wind blow, and it will remind you of her. It might make you cry, it might make you angry, and it might make you write.

But that's for you to decide.