The word "muse" makes me recoil; I think of all the artists--mostly males--who have used this term, interchangeably with "ingénue," to describe the person they kept tethered to them for inspiration. Was it ever true inspiration? Or was it just a stream of dopamine funneling to the ego when seeing that wide-eyed face of awe in response to their artists' existence?
Personally, I am inspired by "Flints." While not the prettiest stone in God's TV Show, Earth, its purposes are vital: cutting to the core and igniting big sparks.
The number of times I’ve picked up two rocks and struck them together in hopes I’ve found Flintstones to start a no-reason fire is more often than the average bear (and probably higher than the outlier bear too). I don’t even like camping and yet I have this hope that one day I’ll find a Flintstone to play with and keep.
So, I feel precious about the metaphorical Flints I've found in humans that ignite a whole motivated persona and creative out of me.
A Flint transforms me into the social butterfly that I had originally assumed only a perfect cocktail of drinks and drugs could. They snap open and lift my eyelids better than any Beverly Hills doctor could. They dilate my pupils so the light from inside sparkles out of my eyeballs like sunlight through stain glass, casting colorful green and gold fractals in every direction. They’ll get my cheek muscles to naturally flex into the perfect, girl-next-door smile. They’ll make me feel confident in any which way my limbs choose to move. They get my heart rate to a perfect 16-count beat. They make me feel so light the only way to walk is to skip, the only way to move is to leap.
And that's just the physiological changes. I've conceived whole, multi-level, multi-faceted, wild and beautiful ideas after a brief meet up with a Flint. To be determined on how many of those ideas come to physical and final fruition.
It would be dangerous to have Human Flints around all the time. I'd plateau at high energy which undoubtedly leads to a spiral that ends with a crash and burn. Part of the magic is the randomized run-ins, the barely coordinated schedule.
I'd survive if I lost my piece of Flint tomorrow, and I always keep the possibility of meeting new Flints open by having an ear close to the pulse on my wrist. If my vitals are racing, if my thoughts are spinning, if I'm even just excited to be here, then I've found a Flintstone to add to my collection.
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