A great deal of literature when addressing the existence of a muse more often than not portrays it as a beautiful, nymph-like spirit that fills your soul with beauty which in turn pours out of your creative spouts in the form of writing, music etc. Personally, I think it is a lie.
To be sure beautiful sights and positive emotions can stir one into a state of giddiness – but I think it is rarely more than that. Delights full of sugar are wonderful when you’re biting into them, but once they are gone they are gone. You can’t seriously recollect the sensation that a gum drop you fancied five years ago produced.
What lingers, what truly tears ones soul to shreds to the point that you have to reach into your very limits to pull yourself out of the abyss – that is where truth in its purest form lies. It’s often said but largely ignored that some of the most phenomenal works of literature, music and art were done by people who were consumed by madness within themselves, or keenly aware of it in their surroundings.