And the muse, she’s just like, leading me down a path. I don’t know where I’m going or what’s happening. I’m trusting her. She just flits ahead, around trees, creating a path that I’m supposed to follow. I’m to follow it by finding the bread crumbs she dispenses as she skips, runs and twirls.
You have any idea how hard it is to find the bread crumbs in a forest? The crumbs she throws are smaller than croutons. Rotting logs and leaves carpet the thick rich forest ground. It’s usually wet and damp black dark. Light finds reaching the heart of the forest hard-going, hard as a sperm’s journey to an ova, maybe. When light does reach there, more confusion results. Shadows are created. Everything looks different with the light.
I never see her. Sometimes, I glimpse a foot or spray of clothes just past a tangle of fallen trees and branches. I think that I can catch up with her by rushing ahead. I want to see her face and ask her, can’t you just stop and be direct with me?
Sometimes, I think I’ve found all the crumbs and I’m forming a sense of what’s going on. Then the muse backtracks on me, and I discover old bread crumbs that I previously missed. “Where does this fit?” I shout into the dark forest.
Silence menaces me. The forest seems darker. Maybe rain is falling out there, past the high, thick boughs of this arboreal creative cathedral. Not given a hand, not given a sound, I get down on my hands and knees, and look for more bread crumbs.