“Aren’t those colours beautiful?”, the wonderful muse said, as she looked up in the autumn-painted tree above us. I looked up as well and it was like the leaves reacted to the kind words of the muse by turning even deeper into the fiery colour palette of the fall.

I just had read my latest blogpost to her and waited for a sign. Did I complete my task properly? Did I fail miserable? She laid on this bench in the Burggarten-park in the centre of Vienna and seemed to just enjoy the golden weather day. “He inspires to survive”, she eventually said, quoting my post.

“Some of the people in the audience thanked him, because he and his music has lead them through dark times, made them endure suffering or even saved their life, as they told us”, I explained.

“And you know, what they meant by that…?”

“Yes, they accomplished to not kill themselves”, I answered.


My muse stood up. She opened her arms and closed her eyes. “Tell me why!”, she politely demanded. “How can he do so? How can they feel that way? Don’t hold back, tell me!” Uprising wind rushed through my hair and through my heart. I knew the answer to that. “Yoshikis music is a strong force. He puts all of his emotions in it and he can feel on a high level. If you happen to be lost in the darkness, ringing with death itself, you can see his music streaming through the blackness, bringing colour and pure energy. It is the music of a wounded person who is still standing, a howl of pain with the will to never give up.” The wind grew stronger and I had to raise my voice. “And you can see Yoshiki standing in the flood, with his bleeding heart, still able to love, looking in the eye of death, unimpressed, as if he would say: I am not done fighting yet!” The feet of the muse left the ground. The wind roared, and I screamed: “And you can shout out the same: I am not done fighting yet! The pain can not crush me today! And you jump into the stream and it takes you away from the abyss.” My muse was now floating in the air, as if the storm had lifted her up. She opened her eyes again and folded her arms around her shoulders. The wind slowed down now, for I had finished. My beautiful muse came down to the ground again. She sighed pleased. She placed herself on the bench again and invited me with a hand gesture to do the same. “How often did you look in the eye of death?”

“Very often”, I answered oddly fearless.

“You know it is not really death you are fighting with. It is something way more sinister. And you should find a name for it.”

“The demon of suicide”, I whispered.

“You should find out, what it is really made of”, she whispered back. She looked me in the eyes so deep, that I lost myself for a moment. There was something in her mind, she wanted to show to me, but she hid it away so quickly, that I had the feeling, it was something illegal.

“Depression and art”, she said so abruptly, that I flinched. “That is an important topic. It will be the topic of your first test.”

“Depression and art”, I repeated. Well, at least at one of those I am trained, I thought cynically. “And when is this test taking place?”

My muse turned to me with an encouraging smile. “It starts now.”

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