Once again with my inspiring muse I lay.

With all this talking about desconstruction and trivialization of art, it's easy to become a frustrated artist. If anything can be observed from such an angle that makes it something worth appreciating and causes feelings, whatever feelings they may be, be they beautiful, tragic, sadistic or naive, but be them feelings which you feel crawling under your skin, anything can be represented in such a way that makes it worth appreciating, it doesn't matter if the word is written, spoken, drawed, coloured, gesticulated, that it express itself in such a way that it may be heard from the ears, from the eyes or that crawls under the skin.

But I can only see the poetry. The poetry of an old man that only hears when it is convenient or from the child that speaks the incovenient which will be conveniently ignored. And conveniently my inspiration disappears when I need her to represent whatsoever may be, that seems to me so worthy of representation, but all I can represent is my pathetic image in a bedroom, sitting in the front of a computer, the screen is clean, the bed occupied, the sheets covering my inspirating muse, the last time I called her she was conveniently sleeping. Shall I wake her like an incovenient child or lay with her and wait for her smile tomorrow or at least in my failed poet's dreams?