Twas a beautiful read for myself. ^^ I'd like to introduce you to my muses as well. (borrowing your initial style, if i might do such)
My muse is of Ink. She splashes images on pages with every movement of grace apon the paper of my imagination. Her shape allows her full control on the details and visual textures to show me what I wish to become, her illustrations never leaving my mind with ease. On the calmest of days the paper is flat and stiff to the touch, allowing for her images to be shown clear through to my eyes as she draws before me in assistance, which is enjoyed. On chaotic days she cannot help herself in her enjoyment of her inkings, accidentally tearing the paper in my mind on sharp turns and angles, deterring from the image she wishes to portray. She supports me when I wish to draw, and consoles me when my work is not within comparison to hers. She has yet to be bested by my art, but she would congratulate me once I do.
My muses are chisels. They show me stories through the etchings and scrapes along my form in which I find fascinating. They sometimes argue like the twins they are, sometimes taking conflict to me as a judge though I cannot always pick the best answer. They are relentless in their urge to know more, and have pushed me through stories of knowledge and information in attempts to have me show them more than I would want to know. They are supportive though, and break through any deterring effects on my writings with ease, allowing me to follow their stories as much as I wish. They are open minded, and allow me to speak to one another with ease, especially when I suggest a separate route in which neither of them perceived before, as we enjoy our collections of stories in which we have carved together.
My muse is a flame. The brush of fire burns me as the colors flash out of focus before dying too quickly for me to remember what even happened inside of the fires of color. My eyes have burned for far too long under the urges to create a piece of art with colors and shades that match, but the burning muse of mine destroys the thoughts as she passes by, possibly not even recognizing my existence in the first place. My muse gazes apon my other muses in disgust, insulting them and their cause though doing nothing other than showing faults and not even attempting to make better of herself. My color dies often, and revives at the slightest spark to remind me of my downfalls and failures in my creations, her words biting my skin and singe the flesh with ease where she hasn't already numbed from her onslaught. My muse doesn't understand, and she never will. My muse burns herself to ashes, crying as she doesn't know what to do as she wishes for help, in which I cannot refuse. My muse thanks me with burns and blisters, but gives me the drive to fulfill my goals.
My muses don't care what I think, as long as I don't lose sight of what I know is important.