6:00 a.m. — Awakened to a brand new day with no idea in mind, the poet found himself in bed in the sorry state of disgust. His selfish muse, the creator of novel notions, had kept her jewels to herself overnight once again. Wishing he could do without her, but lacking the required skills, his frustration arose with the sun. A sense of loathing for the fickle fairy of creativity had enclosed him like a blanket. In bed he stayed, in spite of the tasks the day had set before him.
8:00 a.m. — Tossing and turning with a butt-full of bedbugs, the poet soon discovered that his disgust for the wench had waned, and had since been replaced by another stubborn perception, for now he thoroughly despised her. He decided to keep his distance, and work around her majesty. Uncovering his head, he got up and out of bed, steaming. The wordsmith couldn’t help but to notice the blank sheet of paper on his nightstand. Having nothing to hang his hat on, he began to lose his temper, and hastily chose to forgo breakfast.
10:00 a.m. rolled around, and by then he’d gone completely mad. Allowing his anger to get the best of him, he stewed in his own boiling pot with thoughts of a vengeful nature. Quite suddenly, the wretched man went berserk until his usually tidy room was a wreck, all thanks to a massive amount of uncontrollable shaking and grumbling. In shock, he stopped and fell back into his normal state of awareness. A quick survey of the disarray alerted him to the facts. Due to his fitful and furious display, everything that meant the world to him was in tatters.
12:00 p.m. — When the clock struck twelve, he was as low as one can go, and felt utterly ashamed of himself. The shrinking man’s guilt had become so overwhelming, he couldn’t eat his lunch. Tear after tear dropped into his cup of cold soup. He begged the muse’s forgiveness, but no reply came forth to ease his pain. Bemoaning his numerous faults, he crawled back into the hole from whence he came, his bed, and commenced to counting many a lost sheep.
2:00 p.m. — Having withdrawn himself from the realm of high society, the poet agonized o’er his innate stupidity, and started a derogatory self-examination. No longer blaming the muse for his mistakes, past or present, his guilty conscience began a review of all the time he’d wasted in a half-hazard way. Glancing once again at the pearly piece of paper, and still at a loss for words, he could find not one good reason to get up. On the contrary, he quite easily found several reasons to end his own existence, but then it dawned on him. When he saw the light it occurred to him that he was simply too lazy to take on such a momentous task as suicide implies.
4:00 p.m. — After two hours of trying to bore himself to death, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and gave up. Consequently, once he’d surrendered the cause, he came to realize just how naturally lazy he was. Comfortably relaxed, and bored stiff, but not dead, the poet passively resisted the temptation to strike up a conversation with his goddess of inspiration. Having been the only witness to the day’s shenanigans, he decided to do the only thing left to do during this down-time, namely, take pleasure in extending his hard-earned recess.
6:00 p.m. — Although the famished writer was literarily starving, he was also hungry, literally, so he allowed himself to break bread and eat. Of course, seeking the pleasures of the flesh is a matter of taste, and without an over amount of undo persuasion, he talked his better self into having an ice-cold beverage. Wishing to spread the wealth of this newfound happiness, he smiled and shared the cool bubbly with his favorite mug. Shortly thereafter, he began to envy his muse. Oh, that he could be more like her, and less like his drunken brethren.
7:00 p.m. — Since our poet was in the mood to further indulge himself, he set his mind to pondering. He was able to remember a multitude of folks who were better off, financially speaking. Feeling slightly ungrateful about his current status, he looked at those who were highly esteemed by the masses, as well as those who held prominent positions of prestige. He admitted the thought that he was jealous of those who were able to maintain their untarnished reputations, but he also saw that he retained a certain respect for the rich and famous, and felt a deep need for someone important to admire. However, he did cherish his privacy, and felt sorry for their loss in that regard.
8:00 p.m. — Evening came to pass, and as the darkness began its descent, the poet fell in line with the rhythm of the night. Even though the pearly white page remained purely empty, our man of words began to feel downright giddy. He took a look around and found this grand epiphany. He saw that even though the room was a mess, it wasn’t at all empty. There was no imagined Void. All was full! Having expended his portion of dark negative energy, he was finally able to get the joke. Having drank the magic potion down to the last dregs, he was finally ready to have a laugh, in and on his own behalf.
9:00 p.m. — Seeing the results of his uncontrolled foolishness brought him another revelation. Some of his things he had bent, yes, and a few of his things he’d broken, but none of his things were missing, not even his see-through muse. She was just being silent as the events of the night unfolded. Knowing that she had been there all along filled him with elation, and a contented happiness settled into his heart. In a matter of seconds, this joy turned into rapture, and hand in hand with the rapture, his long-lost confidence returned. Feeling as proud as a peacock, the poet stood up straight, took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and raised his chinny chin chin. He felt brave, courageous even, and so he began pacing the floor, quick as he could, seeking what in particular, he didn’t know at all.
10:00 p.m. — As the evening began its journey’s end, the poet began to tire. Finely attuned was he to his biological clock, and so he knew the time had come to hit the hay and call it a day. Against all odds, or so it seemed to him, he’d made it through one more chapter of his life with his beating heart intact. Repeating his nightly mantra, he stuck to his normal routine, and prepared himself for bed. After all was said and done, he made his way to the corner where he slept, and reached for the lamp. Once more, he looked at the blank sheet of paper and the untouched pen on his nightstand, but before he had time to turn off the light, his lady of ideal dreams spilled her magic beans. The poet gladly picked them up, and prudently placed them in an order befitting the occasion. Once he thought he could see perfection in their loving collaboration, he smiled, and thanked his merry muse. Turning off the light, he kindly said, “Good-night!” and went to bed feeling lucky.
Line art by Princess Elemmiriel