Write that story, your muse tells you.
” Tomorrow, I will do that,” you reply.
Read that book, it implores.
” Next time,” you insist, ambling to your mattress to hit the sack.
And so, the ‘next time’ turns into a week, then a month, a year, before it finally dissipates like smoke from a dying ember, and the gifts are trapped within you, waiting to explode.
Those who listen to the voice of their muses break records. Those who don’t, sit down and curse innocent people for casting a spell of indolence on them.
You are the architect of your woe!