My muse makes me crave to write. This itch to write, to express...what? I do not know. Somehow, there's no extreme emotion as yet. Not yet. So I cannot write a poem or a story. However, I can tell you what I was thinking.
My muse, as I said, makes me crave to write. And sometimes, when I have read too much of his poetry, I feel intoxicated. He merges emotions and words like Neruda, expressing simple-ordinary stuff in uncommon metaphors. He weaves a tapestry so beautiful, like Gabriel, that I feel as if I'm under a moon-lit indigo sky, and the breeze is a caress, a message from a beloved. I feel this when I am sitting in my cubicle, in the underground office from where I cannot even see the sky.
And then I feel like calling him, meeting him. And wondering how someone, who has magic in his words, be in person?
Very human, I believe. And so, I don't meet him. Sometimes, we shouldn't face what's real. Sometimes, it's good to have a mystery in our mundane life. A bit of fairy tale mystique. To dwell upon his actuality, rather than meeting him in reality.
And so I dream on in this exotic world, created with a tinge of him, and a dash of his poems.