Stale

Can thoughts go stale? My intellect is full of thought-crumbs (a great, great many thought-crumbs) but somehow I can’t help but regard them as far too stale to be shared. My muse is a fitful, moody little beastie – her vanity requires immediate attention or she goes to her corner and sulks. How I wish I could bring her under my control . . .

Upon more serious contemplation, leaving aside all the fitting, but nevertheless mythological, imagery, no doubt my “muse” is only a way of referring to the side of my personality that controls my creativity, as well as most of my more admirable passions and energies, viz., my sanguineous streak. Given that, this situation is hardly surprising. I’ve always known that I don’t have that side of me under any kind of rational control. However, if I try to force it into following timely, virtuous dictates it simply refuses to cooperate and, left alone with only my choleric side as comfort, I get very angry about it all and am quite miserable. My marriage has greatly exacerbated this battle, too. When you’re married you can’t really afford running your life higgledy-pig. Consideration for/devotion to one’s husband requires forethought, rational control over renegade emotions: in short, a general good order of soul and action. I’ve yet to figure out, though, how this sort of rational control can be exercised without murdering my passion for life altogether. The mythological images are really the only fitting way to describe that aspect of my life – it’s as if the part of me that enables all real sense of wonder for this world were some nasty little sprite that simply will not heed beck and call. BUT, it simply has to submit. Right reason will not admit of anything else.

So . . .

I guess I get used to the state of being stale . . . ?