The horizon has always been before me, stretching out with a sustained potential. It offered a promise in a language now foreign to me, yet fluent as a youth. The invitation the horizon extended never waned, and while my fear refused its seduction, it never ceased its wooing.
Carl Jung described the Muse as the “passion that engrosses” us, Socrates interpreted the Muse as the initiator of performance, and Plato’s Ion might lead us to believe the Muse is in the desire of the reader or observer. My acquaintance with the Muse was ever forthcoming, yet I demurred with perennial resolve in demand of agendas that were never my own. When the Muse visits, we alone can be the tragic arbitrator of our longings demise.