Give a Cat a Bone

Whilst I was cleaning the kitchen, that darn cat, (one of the dozens around this place) would not stop climbing on everything and getting completely in my way. Since this cat was so irritably over everything, I at last found a piece of bone with a little meat still on it, and tossed it to the fiend of a feline. My hope for peace was answered as the little kitten pounced upon my offering with the velocity of a ravenous lioness, and for a time left me to my own.

This little occurrence reminded me a little of my interaction with Muse. And left me wonder whether there might be something, like meat-bones I threw to the real cat, that I could throw to my imagery cat. Perhaps then I could get peace, and perhaps then I could be… normal. That far away concept that always seems to elude me.

If there is something, I have no idea what it could be. Is there something? Anything? that can entertain my muse, quite the compulsive story-teller inside me, or cure my over-active imagination? Or am I doomed to be this strange girl who argues with imaginary people, squeals to strangers about her favorite authors and books, and turns someone’s name into a tap dancing centaurs? Yeah, Probably.

But that is the fate of people like me. Sure, sometimes reading an awesome book or getting a story out of your head and liking  how it came out will satisfy, and leave you in pace for a time. But ultimately it never lasts, and there’s always that next series, or story idea that pops into your head at inconvenient times. And we have to learn to live with it.

But you know, it ain’t all bad. Most of us don’t just put up the madness, we PLAY WITH IT.  We take the imaginary people and daydreams and make them into stories that others can understand and be swept away with. We take the crazy and give it to others, to spice up their mundane lives, entertain them, or help them escape. And sometimes even show them a new perspective or teach them something about truth and life. Although it should be noted that lecture fiction it no fun, nether is a story without a point or a purpose. Both are dull, irritating, or unsatisfying.

Us writers may be awkward ducks socially, and some of us hide it better than other, but we are more than that. We are day-dreamers, we are believers in the impossibility and hope. We notice the little things, we never stop wondering at life, we came up with fictional worlds and we can play your heart-strings like your favorite song.

So I learn to live with the madness. Dance in the kitchen and while the cats serenade at my feet, making a fool of myself. Yet for the sake of my sanity (or would it be insanity?) I continue on.

Thankfully no one is watching, and it is late at night or in the deep recesses of my mind. But even if they did, I’d just smile and wave, and continue on being crazy.

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