STOIC POETRY | My muse is blind, deaf, mute and dead
Updated: Sep 4, 2021
My muse is blind, deaf, mute and dead. She is the inorganic fact of reality. The inanimate ambition of entropy. The chill, dark waste between the stars. The uncaring substrate of physics and chemistry; bound, secured and destined towards some emotionless mathematical end.
I wrote these words one day while reflecting on just how much my muse isn't. I was struck by how the perception of emptiness in the almost nowhere of the deep desert seems to draw out some sort of inspiration from me... It's like a vacuum pulling toothpaste from a tube. Or the awkward silence of a crowded room, pressing someone - anyone - to speak and to break the terrible quiet. That's what it's like for me when my desert muse provokes me to think and maybe write or speak. It's like a great nothing drawing some inspired something out from nowhere within me, when I didn't even know such an emptiness could even exist.
My name is Kurt Bell.
You can learn more about The Good Life in my book Going Alone.
Be safe... But not too safe.