The Killing of a Muse

You may kill off the muse early on in the story, but you can’t get rid of her.

She will forever be there, engraved on the typewritten paper, embroidered on the readers memory, the light shadows of her name or description being cast through the thin sheet of word covered paper.

She will not ever know all the places her name has been, she will never fully understand the impact she has in shaping the chapter or chapters she was in.

Her appearance will not be depicted by a few lexical phrases for her mind is the real work of art, but no one see’s her mind. No one takes the time to delve into the bottomless pool of over thought thoughts.

No one takes the time to wonder why she prefers coffee instead of tea. No one wonders why she she wears a new coat every four weeks. No one stops to think as to why she doesn’t eat breakfast, the most important meal of the day. No one ever asks oneself how she runs off coffee fumes and shattered dreams even she, the great muse, can’t put back together.

What people do ponder is, why kill off such a great muse? How do you go on without her insights?

And the truth to that is, they weren’t really her insights. They were mere snips of what her complex mind had to offer. They were minuscule film reels of what she had in store for you.

But now...she is the forgotten sicken fossils of a bone structured city she can’t even call home. She is the fire fly in the palm of a bear that is not sure whether it is read for flight. She is the party which anxiety felt obligated to invite insomnia too. She is not the life of the party nor the host, she is the house they reek havoc in, twisting her insecurities around like a game of spin the bottle.

Yet she does not fear the future. Yet she does not fear what is to become of her, because when she is finally cut off, when she is given her death blow...she knows she has the strength to pull her self up from the wreckage. Turning those pages caused and she knows she will be able to place every fine black letter, every word, sentence and punctuation back in its rightful place, for her life to once make sense again.

She is a careless tourist in her mind, wandering each corner, every groove and steps into the archive library that will only give her snippets of her old life, for her new one awaits.