Vanishing muse
I want to write so
badly, and I get the motivation for a second, but then it just slips. My
muse is slipping through the spaces between my fingers, like water in my cupped
hands. And I can’t hold it. I can’t freeze it and hold it in my palm and let it
freeze my skin. I can’t stop it from melting; I can’t stop it from leaking. My
muse is like the memory of someone who died, or someone who’s away, someone you
don’t see every day. It’s slowly vanishing from my brain and I try to hold on
onto it but I can’t, not even if I look at pictures or videos the person behind
the screen is not the same as the person who once stood in front of me, who I
once hugged.
My mom says ‘stop
starting new stories and you’ll see how you finish the other ones’ but how can
I explain that it doesn’t work like that. How can I make her understand so
she’ll stop pressuring me if I can’t even explain it to myself? My head is full
of worlds, full of developing characters and faces I cannot fathom the factions
of, yet I know their hearts and their souls and fears and dreams. They keep
popping out of nowhere and grow and I have to write them down because sometimes
it becomes too much, sometimes I need to detach myself from that character from
one story who’s feeling shitty and I need to remember that it’s not me right
now, that maybe it was me when I wrote it but it’s not me right now. The only
way of draining my head and letting things go is by writing them and that’s why
I have so many unfinished stories because I feel someway and I write about it
but then it goes away and I can’t write anymore, or the problem is never
resolved so it feels wrong to finish writing about it. I don’t know.
Sometimes I just
lose the story, I think about it for too long or take a long break in between
two chapters and I lose the soul of the story, and when I try to write it again
and giving it an end it feels wrong and incomplete. I need to feel what I’
writing, if I don’t I can’t do it, I can’t write something I don’t believe in
or something I don’t feel. Sometimes
it’s something that I want, sometimes it’s something I hate, but it needs to be
linked to my feeling because if its not then why the hell would I take my time to write about it. A piece of paper is the only place where I can truly be me,
where I can say what I want without holding back. The pen is the only one I
trust with my secrets, the only one I let to peek into my chest and see what
hides in there, why would I write something that means nothing to me. All I
write, it’s linked to me, because it comes from me.
My muse loves to
play hide and seek. She comes and goes and comes and goes and it’s worse than a
gypsy honestly, she has no home. Sometimes she is a random smile coming from a
random person or a certain look or a smell or the ghost of an emotion or an
emotion on someone else’s face. I never know where she is coming from or how
she got here. I never know when she will leave, and when she does I never know
when she will come back. She likes to play and she likes to leave before things
are over and really, I can’t blame her. She is just like the person she likes
to posses.
No comments:
Post a Comment