I have brought my books, my papers, my folders. Everything is here. Just to make me feel I can keep up with my writing. Because I think this is what I do for a living.
Everything is here except the muse that inspires me muse.
The old muse has gone. The new one is difficult to listen to.
Whenever she and I try to have a conversation wife comes in, one of the twins wakes up, another cries, or poos. The muse leaves. Sometimes she comes back late at night. And we start again. Scribbling, drawing, thinking. Writing as if I was in a war trench, waiting to be shelled at any moment.
Dear muse, please do not ask me to do the impossible. I am keeping a record of what we talk about. I hope some day to write about it. For now, all I can think of is maybe one thing at a time.
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