The Word Cloud

There’s a time when the muse can creep up behind you and whisper sweet somethings in your ear. It can strike anywhere. Like a viper. Like a virus.

            It can be ignited by a scent, a sound, a snippet. By a random thought that infected you when you least expected it and yet suddenly you’re in its thrall, its chains wrapped tight, its padlock impenetrable.

            And that’s the time when you like it most.

            It drags you.

            It wrestles you away from the everyday, it strangles your hold on the now, snuffs it out, smothers you, breathes new air into you, replaces your cells with others that vibrate and rattle your bones, it rips at your skin and inserts Machiavellian notions of purposeful prose until you submit to its eager enchantments and forego other pleasures just to sate it.

            And that –

            Is when you love it.