Missing my Muse....

I would rather be sitting outside, the warm breeze brushing gently against my face, even though the temperature outside will be almost unbearable in the next few hours. Anywhere that I can be alone, even if it's just for a few minutes. Anywhere that I can focus on my writing without the distraction of my children or the television with it's garish colors and too loud cartoon sounds. Anywhere that I can get away from the error beeps and game sounds of my son's computer games.
They are all there. My characters, I mean. Disperia, Jessica, Nichole, DJ, James, Mordred and the rest. They are all there, inside my head. Call me crazy if you will, but my characters are all a part of me. I am not writing, honestly. I am just the tools that they use to put down their stories on paper. I have no control over what my characters do, and no half the time I have no idea what's going to happen next in the story. I have a scene for Jessica that I'm twelve pages into writing so far and I have no idea how it's going to end.
I am missing my muse. I know she's there, I can feel her in everything. In every time that I see something and my mind slips into a third-person narrative.

"That faux-hawk makes you look like a douche-bag" she thought to herself as she walked past the man with the offending haircut, a customer of hers who stood a good foot taller than her already ample 5 foot 7 inches.
"And that attitude makes you sound like a cunt." The reply appeared in her mind and she spun around, staring in disbelief at the tall customer who had stopped walking and turned to face her.
"You can hear me?!" she asked, both out loud and inside her mind, a shocked look plain on her face.
"Yes." he said, matter of factly. It took her a second to realize that he had not moved his lips. "Did you really think you were the only one?" Before she could collect her thoughts to respond, he spun on his heel and stalked away. His muscular frame was tense with irritation, but he had a half-smile resting on his lips.

I see things like this every single day. I see how people react to each other and to themselves. I watch the managers walk around the store and even the biggest crowd parts for them like a school of fish around a shark. I write, I think, I see, but I can't put my fingers to my keyboard and get it all down before it flees my mind like a startled deer.
So maybe I just have to sit here and write, no matter what comes out of my head and gets translated into pixels on a screen or ink on a piece of paper. I may be missing my muse but she'll come back, no matter what I do.
She always does.