They said the muse would come like lightning, 
Sudden, striking—loud and bright.
But mine came quietly…
In shadows,
In silence,
In storms that swallowed light.

She didn’t knock—she waited.
In the aching stillness between one breath and the next.
In the paused paragraph, the half-spoken prayer,
The tear I didn’t post,
The dream I didn’t dare.

The world was loud—
But inside, a whisper:
“Come find me not in noise… but in knowing.”

Rain fell. Thunder grumbled like an old truth resurfacing.
Art didn’t rescue me.
I became the art.
The blank page became a mirror,
The ink, a map of my becoming.

I tried to chase her—in books, in brands, in borrowed brilliance.
But she lived not in echoes…
She lived in me.

And now I know:
I was always the muse.
I was the rhythm, the revelation, the roar.
I was the quiet thunder behind closed doors.

So to every creative who wanders—
To the one who sketches stars on weary skin,
To the poet scribbling secrets in the margins:
Don’t search too far.

The muse you seek is not out there.
She is layered beneath your laughter and grief,
She is stitched into your silence,
And when the story ends?

Let it be mystery— Sssshh!
The muse... It was me all along. 

The Muse is Me!