Work Text:
On a cold purple night, where everyone slept, covered up to the nose in their cozy homes, Snufkin didn't sleep. He wandered through the forest, among the trees, dark and silence. Cold wind gusts passed, and dense lilac clouds covered some stars, except for the rebellious ones that would not let anyone dull their brightness, and the great moon, which with its proud golden color, illuminated the night.
The annoying insomnia had struck once more, yes. "But maybe it's not such a bad thing" thought the mumrik, walking with his hands behind his back. "Because on such splendid nights, sleeping would be a tragedy."
And this was also the perfect time to be at peace with his thoughts, as if his mind were a pool of water that eventually became calm. Snufkin sat on the cool grass, and the familiar tune of the spring song came to his mind, and it was as if a leaf had fallen into his pond and abruptly muddied it. Ah ... the song. The one of all the years. The one he could always do, but this time he couldn't. And it was already the first days of spring, so he should finish it soon.
But it was so ... complicated, this time. He did not find the inspiration to create it, and he knew well that the melody was there, free in his body, flowing. He just had to catch each note, and carefully, stitch them all together with an invisible golden thread. And thus his song would be born. But being an artist is so tiring sometimes. It's like hunting butterflies: Complicated, exhausting, and frustrating. Sometimes it seems to make no sense. All art hunters have thought of surrendering. On the other hand ... it's poetic. Marvelous. Splendorous, fun, magical! There is nothing more satisfying than seeing the finished work, with great pride, knowing that it was born from its essence, from the depths of its soul.
A cold drop fell. And then another. Snufkin snapped out of his thoughts when he felt the tapping on his hat, and when he lifted his head, a droplet fell on his nose. At last it had started to rain. He got up, and said, in a whisper: "Maybe it's time for me to go to sleep ..."
But then, for no apparent reason, he began to think about his beloved Moomintroll. He didn't really know why, but he imagined him next to him, watching the rain fall, his eyes shining, excited. Then he would start spinning in the rain with a smile, accepting the rain as a divine gift. "Right, moomins really like water ..." The mumrik recalled, as his imagination projected such a sweet scene.
And suddenly, the much-needed inspiration arrived. He opened his eyes and took out his harmonica, with slight emotion. He began to blow, inhale and spin his new work of art. As his song unfolded on its own, he began to dance along with the Moomintroll of his imagination. He was getting soaked, and he would soon start shivering from the cold, but he wasn't worried. An inspired artist will never think about the weather, the time, or ending up with a cold. And even though he knew that Moomintroll would be sleeping in his bed, snuggled up warmly, hearing the rain clink on the window, he could still feel his presence next to him, dancing beside him, which seemed to give him the strength to keep playing another and another note, like Every good muse should.
Because after all, an artist will always need a muse. One reason to keep hunting those rambunctious butterflies. A source of strength, and a place to rest at the same time. Something - or someone - whose presence feels like a comforting place, to which you can always return.