A muse full fills the room before she fills you. Her presence is a pressure behind the eyes, a hum in the hollow of the chest. You try to write one line; she gives you twenty. You try to paint one flower; she turns the canvas into a jungle. There is no not enough with her—only the terror of too much .
Ultimately, to be muse full is the greatest privilege of the artistic life. It is a justification for the hours spent staring at blank walls during the drought. It is the proof that the connection is still live. a muse full