I slowly opened the door in front of me, and peeked cautiously
inside. Sure enough, she was there, sitting serenly, reading a story. It
was most assuredly one of mine, perhaps even this one. Opening the door
all the way, I strode into the room.

"Where have you been?" I ask, accusingly.

She looks up from her reading, unconcerned with my bluster. "All around
the world, even a couple other galaxies. I needed something to do."

"Why have you forsaken me?" Her attitude annoys me.
She stares at me, aghast. "Me forsake you? I would never do such a
thing. It is you who forsake me."

I look at her blankly, uncomprehending how that could be.

"Ah, you still do not understand. I'll be off, then." Discarding the
story on the table, she turns towards a door on the opposite wall.

"Wait!" I cry, not wanting her to run off again.

She stops and turns to look at me, dark eyes curious.

"Um..." I start, not really knowing what to say. "Don't go."

"And why shouldn't I? It is you who do not need me."

"What's in the story?" I ask, pointing at the discarded paper on the
table.

"Oh, that? Nothing, really. Just something you would write."

I leap forward and grab a page before she can stop me, grasping for
anything that might cause her to stay. To my surprise, she doesn't move
to stop me. I look at her quizzically, she seems to want me to have a
look. Cautiously, I look down at the paper in my hand. It is blank. Not
a drop of ink on its surface. "There's nothing here."

"Yes." She replied, and stepped out the door.

I step forward to follow her, to bring her back, but she's already
gone. Downcast, I shuffle slowly to the chair that she was using. All
of the pages are blank, much as I expected them to be. I look around
on the table for a writing implement, anything will do. Of course there
is none. She wouldn't have one, that would be absurd. I've lost. She's
gone again.

It is at that instant that I remember the pen in my pocket. Ink hits the
paper, and sticks, leaving lines that turn into letters, letters that
turn into words, words that turn into sentences, sentences that turn
into paragraphs, and paragraphs that turn into a story. I write without
thinking, without worrying. I write a story of a man lost and alone,
wandering aimlessly without his muse. I write a story telling of how he
found it, and how it rejected him. And then I get stuck. Where should
the story go from here?

"May I read it when you're done?" I jump at the unexpected sound. It's
her.

"Could I, no, would I dare stop you?" I ask.

I can almost feel her smiling behind me. The man in the story begins
to write a story of his hardship, and does not know how to finish. It
is then that he finds his muse again. And it is then that he knows how
the story ends.

For as he continues writing, he finds that this story doesn't really
have much more to it. There are many more things to write, many more
worlds to create. And he vows not to let is be lost again.
As soon as I finish, I pass the paper over to her. She giggles and runs
off into a corner to read, elated. I smile happily, and look at the stack
of blank paper in front of me. I have much more to write. I better get
to it. My pen hits the paper one more time, spitting out lines that make
letters, letters that make words . . . And it goes on.