Where are my muses ...?

 More than one occasion, I've asked myself: where are my muses ?, why others are inspired to write so beautiful and I'm even clumsy for that? ... If I tell you that a few times I tried to write something, and I did not nothing comes out.        

     I do not know if the muses exist, but  I know that they do not  know me, totally abandoned by them, or whatever it is that we identify them with. I think the happy muses, their comings and goings, are just the excuse to justify the creative mood and, even so, I think  there must  be something supernatural that comes unexpectedly  to the heads of those great artists, writers and the like,so who are forced to always have a couple of papers and a pen nearby.     

       According to Hesiodo the muses are creatures with the nature of a fairy engendered by the god Zeus and Mnemósine, goddess of memory, and although they never agreed to specify their number, their genesis or their attributes, already, at this point in history, I believe that each one has its own springs of inspiration, sometimes absolutely dry. That terror of the blank paper spoken of by some writers, the need to not find the necessary breath in the moon, or in the stars, or in the human soul, or in some wounded heart or in any other potential of inspiration, and it is that in truth, I certify it, there are times when nothing works, as if the muses were engulfed, etílicas and / or capricious haunting other simple mortals.         

    I read that in the book "When the muses come", by Angel Esteban and Raúl Cremades, the creative work of several authors is crumbling, the literary intimacy of Alberti, Borges, Benedetti, García Márquez, Delibes, Buero Vallejo or Isabel Allende, among others. In this work you can see that the search for the muses is endless, necessary, eccentric, meticulous, obsessive and maniacal. Almost as laborious as the act of creating itself.           

    Some of these intimacies are the following:   

     Borges immersed himself every morning in a bathtub of hot water to meditate whether or not he could take literary advantage of what he had just dreamed.      

    Isabel Allende always begins her works on January 8 and places Pablo Neruda's books under her computer to give her the necessary inspiration.          

   García Márquez, who confessed very superstitious, wrote with a yellow flower on the desk or surrounded by women.      

   Cabrera Infante never wrote if he had not seen two or three movies before, at night and before going to sleep.       

   Mario Vargas Llosa usually write surrounded by numerous figures of hippos.       

    Saramago only wrote two folios per day and not one more line ... ...       

      Where are my muses ...? Everyone perceives them, invents them and / or places them wherever they want, where they can or where they are left ...