I find myself here in my apartment. There’s significantly less furniture; I have my nightly cup of tea soured to my liking with lemon. I have my aged sweatshirt on—if you know me, you know what one I’m talking about—, hair up in a messy bun. My mattress is out in the middle of my living room. My bedroom is now free for so many possibilities, but tonight only thoughts invade the intangible space between my ears and confines me to the makeshift desk in the corner.
I sometimes find myself thinking of the same person over and over. I don’t know who they are anymore, but I find myself attached to memories. Not even memories. Vignettes. I don’t even relive complete memories anymore because as much as I’ve held on to those tarnished memories, it’s not about the moments anymore. It’s about the incomplete personality that sat across from me.
I always saw glimpses into what I thought was one of the most beautifully authentic personalities. There was grounding in their imperfection. I felt like Magellan floating into new territory, but who was suddenly swept away by storms whenever I was shut out again. I would spend night after naive night wondering what was beneath every surface gesture or sentiment.
They would always tend to find their way behind some meaning of something I was creating or someone else’s creation that I was letting in. It wasn’t love. I tell myself that all of the time, because I’ve learned the difference between love and the musings created by an enigmatic being. I’ve also taught myself to rattle that previous sentiment off because it makes this piece more palatable to write.
I started thinking about how dramatic the idea of a muse was until I finally understood what it feels like having a muse of my own. Anything I would ever create never felt good or complete enough. My ideas were simply taking indiscernible shapes; I couldn’t finish them if I didn’t know what I was feeling when I wrote them, but there was something deep inside me that needed to fully feel this, these, those, them, then, that. I will never know what to call it.
I have abandoned one million and one projects because I would never understand the gravity of impact that those pieces of a person would have on me. I would never be able to do the pieces justice because what happens when I complete what I think was missing, but I’m completely wrong? They will never live in full ideas; the magic, the fascination comes from the space they refuse to take up. They don’t live in a song; they live in the hesitation that comes before a verse of a song starts. They don’t live in the memory of their taste; they live in the seconds after they touched your tastebuds and you’re slowly beginning to put a name to that taste. They don’t live in the fire; they live in the moment before the fluid and the wood meets when you wonder whether this might be the last fire you light. It’s so enigmatic, almost impossible to see. I’ve spent years trying to come up with words trying to express things that will never be fully explained or understood because they have never and will never be fully explained to me or understood by me.
I’ve been stripped of all the confidence that I have to write something that will ever come close to being good enough, and no one else makes me feel this subdued confidence which abandons me once I think I’ve come to the point where I can unlock the full idea of what lies beneath the surface.
I failed at coming up with a complete idea of who this person is or who they even were for years. Unfortunately, that’s the beauty in it. I will spend time and time again traversing new versions of me to see if I finally found something that understands and can complete the masterpiece, but only ever to come back to cherish the pieces.
Is that a muse?
This is stunningly beautiful! You really are an amazing writer, and I can't wait to read more of your posts in the future!