Bookmark #547

Lately, I have not adhered to my schedule and have written haphazardly and variably as the days have waltzed past me. Now, I can confirm the muses have their window, and if you miss it, you are gone for good. Nothing will come out of you, no matter how long you sit there at the desk. But like all guests, the muses are understanding and are open to some adjustment and accommodation. In this golden month, as I am still trying to get a grip on my wholesome days, I have made it a point to inform the muses of my tardiness as early as possible. “I apologise,” I tell them, “the day has already unfurled, and now that there are things that depend on me, could you revisit me in the evening?” And when I have had my dinner and drinks and come back to the desk after an exhausting day, I find them waiting. In life, with all things, all you have to do is ask kindly, and even inspiration obliges you. A sweet word, honestly spoken, is better than any pumpkin spice syrup you can concoct on these heavenly auburn days.

The sky was golden this evening, and I could see the flavour of October slowly engulf everything. I was convinced I could make another coffee, sit and start writing. If I had, I could have distilled the evening into prose that would have put the crisp leaves of early autumn to shame. But as enticing as the idea was, it would not have been honest of me to stray away from responsibility, and no art comes out of dishonesty and malice. So, I only made a cup of coffee and stood at the edge of my balcony for a good ten minutes, taking in everything as it stood in front of me. An eagle soared right above the golden light and sky, and the trees were all dolled up with the golden orange blush of the fall sun. And as one tends to get reflective in such moments, it occurred to me how in a few days, a full year would have passed from the last time I was unhappy.

It was when I turned twenty-five years old and thought I was too late for all I was meant to do and everything I was meant to be. The leaves were golden last year, too, and the leaves will be golden next year, still. Now, I know I have arrived wherever I was meant to reach, and I am writing—it is all I was meant to do.

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