ORIGINAL: The Muse
Summary: torn. desperate, even
Word count: 644
About the story: This is where my Muse got her physical form.
My muse has a weird way of showing affection. Maybe it's a game she likes to play. Or maybe I’m just assuming things to begin with. Her look is somewhat stern as if she’s expecting me to give out more of myself to her. Even though I want to, I’m afraid my thoughts would scare her away.
She’s not a fragile little thing, but I am, no matter how hard that is for her to understand. One needs to feel the pain in order to create such beautiful things like she manages to release from the deepest parts of me. Some of that I want - I need - to keep just for myself.
She would sit opposite of me, her eyes full of expectation and I can’t help but wonder if I’m boring her. I think a little piece of me dies every time I disappoint her like that; when she asks a question and the only answer I can muster is a smile. a genuine smile from the bottom of my heart but not quite what she hoped for from my reply.
I don’t want to sound so torn, desperate even, but her very presence sets off something so unsettling inside of me. The words I want to write and the emotions I wish to liberate seem like a perfect fraud. I get to tell her exactly what she means to me and how the privilege of being around her makes me complete without speaking out directly.
One day she might even let me touch her. To give her a hug. A long, lingering one and a kiss on the cheek. I’m sure, though, that would break me completely and the bond of trust we developed over time would shatter to bits.
it hurts me to see how she inspires others. Slowly it kills me to watch the ease with which she approaches and caters to their art. Yes, I’m selfish but at least I admit it. I’d never admit it to her, though. To me, that would be almost as if I was professing my love.
Staying up at night, rewinding the conversations we had, the double meanings and hidden agendas, the innuendos and conveyed secret fantasies - my mind would roam freely in front of her without her even knowing.
I’m tiring myself with never-ending references that only I understand. The books she reads or the music we both like to listen. When she jumps on her feet and twirls herself around like a little kid I see a perfect excuse for writing a story.
She has beautiful hands, which create such marvelous things. One day I’ll stop observing and allow myself to participate in her schemes. She has so much to offer; I could learn so many things from her. But I keep telling myself tomorrow, some other day… maybe. Most of the time I let her twirl me around her finger. Like master and a puppet, it seems. I allow it because I know I need her more than she needs me.
She told me once how her heart belongs to another. She has a muse of her own. I’m envious and thrilled at the same time because now I know I’m not alone. How much more of this I can take, I don’t know. Tomorrow I’ll be sitting at my desk and writing again, her words flowing through me.
Should I be thankful that my inspiration lies in her, so close and within my reach? Would her dreams and my thoughts ever blend into one fabulous story for everyone to see?
After another night of me being a silent observer I know that she’s at home and fast asleep. I’m here, writing; pouring my soul out and yet hoping these words she’ll never get to see.
I guess I am blessed because her magic is working.
The end.