Fighting the Muse
Concentration is a fickle muse. Drifting in and out of the sun's rays.
The pressure of physical distractions pulls apart the strings of concentration. Pain filtering from joint to joint, nerve to nerve. Cracking joints an unusual, daily, auditory distraction.
Forcing the threads together, I call the muse back to me. Fighting through the pain steadily calling the muse away from me. Attempting to weave words together to form importance, struggling to focus on the theme of my writing.
The muse runs away. Concentration blows out the window. My hand shakes as I lose my grip. The pain is fierce in its conquest. Tears flood my eyes, threatening to consume the last of my strength.
I curl into a ball, attempting to shield myself from the onslaught. Futile in my efforts. My own body is attacking me, destroying my passion and flow. Trapped inside my body, I want to escape. To have the pain end. To no longer be limited in my activities. To be able to sit without having my hips burn with pain. To be able to write without my elbows feeling like they are going to fall off. To end the constant aches of my body's joints, spreading now to other bones and muscles. Just stop it all.
Concentration is a fickle muse. The pain secedes for now. The muse comes back as the sun's rays fade. I pick up my pen and fight through the lingering pain. A strange source of inspiration. A source I do not want.
Free my body.
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