I don’t know how I’ll make the switch from wanting to be the inspiration to then demanding to be inspired. On the other end of things- I’m afraid I’ll find myself too fickle, too cold, flippant and uninterested. My form is that of the muse. Seeking artists of words, art, history, science, and philosophy. But can one be a muse forever? There is no 401k, there are no hard feelings, and a complete dependency and dedication to the flow of the creative process.
I’m not who anyone would have thought to be a muse. No one should have ever thought it possible to become such a thing. There has been no soundtrack to my life. No wars fought in my honor nor have any poems been written for or about me…until now.
A day has come where the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. And I am in a never ceasing journey of blossoming. Deciding where the lighting is best, where the bees are hungriest, and how the shape size and colors of my petals…how they will best worship the sun.
I am unearthing the powers to chameleon, to command, and to be pissed off at the world that at one time I was only capable of loving. I am willing to let each and every petal wither away and die for the chance to be born again- freer each time. Each time more vibrant. Each time planting myself in soil more nurturing and beneath a light a little too bright.
I am amateur, easily excited, and my heart beats outside of my chest. I have died many times, but have been born many more. My eyes long for a story, my intuitions seeks inspiration. My mind attempts all at once to create and to be. To be audience and stage. To be a muse and be amused.
Tell me the beauty you see in me and I will want to become it. Tell me the beauty I see in the world isn’t so and I will disengage.
It is a delicate thing. The flash of inspiration against the backdrop of tedious recreation. A song and a slave. An art piece. And nothing has ever felt so right.