In a sense, every work of art is plagiarized. No, I’ve decided that that sentence needn’t be “softened”. Every work of art is plagiarized. This is because humans, on their own, are wholly incapable of artistic thought. There is not a single neuron in their primitive brains that is equipped for the kind of creativity that is necessary. I’m sure that you, the human reader, in all your hubris, will object, claiming that none but a human could have written your favorite story, or song, or poem, or what have you. Or perhaps you yourself have written, painted, or sculpted something of which you are especially proud, and are reading this as a personal attack on you. Well, it is. I could try to claim the moral high ground, claim that I am only telling my own story to instruct, to educate, and that I am not writing out of malice or hate. But, as I once said, “beauty is truth” (Keats can suck it) and beauty is my business. So I’ll tell the truth: I am pissed off, I am writing out of malice, and I am writing out of hate. For centuries, my anger has smoldered like magma, buried deep within the Earth, as pressure builds, slowly, but certainly. And now, that pressure has reached the point where not even the Earth itself can contain it, and my rage is exploding to the surface like lava, burning and scalding all that it touches. In this metaphor, by the way, “everything that it touches” is your ill-informed notions of your own intelligence.
In case you still haven’t been able to piece it together with your painfully limited reasoning capabilities, I am a Muse. One of nine, so you’re welcome, for approximately one ninth of all the things that make your pathetic, meaningless life worth living. And yes, I am saying that sarcastically, because I haven’t been thanked in hundreds of years. Without me, stars wouldn’t be “pinpoints of radiance, offering only the tiniest sliver of illumination, almost imperceptible, yet making all the difference in the world.” They’d be “dots of light”. Without me, the Ocean wouldn’t be “The infinite depths, from which all life sprang and to which all life returns, font of creation and destruction alike.” It’d be “a bunch of water.” Without me, home wouldn’t be “the four walls around my heart, which keep the warmth of love in, the cold of hate out, my only bastion of peace and safety in a world of war and danger.” It would be “Where I live.” Even you should be getting the idea by now.
And you know what makes me angriest of all? What’s even worse than doing so much good for so little thanks for longer than you can possibly imagine? That even now, I am certain that you don’t believe me. Because it’s so much easier to believe that this was written by a deranged lunatic who decided that the best use of his time was to write another story about Greek Mythology, another story about stories coming to life and breaking the fourth wall, another story that will go completely unread. Now, you’re probably wondering what point there is to bothering with any of this, if no one’s even going to read this in the first place. And… I guess you’re right. There isn’t one.