The Muse

I am the muse that always comes to your mind when you sit down with a pen and paper. The girl who materialises on your desk just as you imagined her the moment ink smeared on the paper. Her long hair, dove eyes and those red lips. She was there to nod along and caste a fire in you that engulfed the piece of paper. She tempted you and touched out to the writer in you . Once when you couldn’t sit down and write , her image blurred and you gasped to hold onto her. The desperation to write soon turned into the desperation to see her. It was one and the same thing after all. She was your muse. How could you write without her shiny eyes showing you millions of galaxies? Your hands were shaking and to outdo yourself you leapt to hold her. But she was gone leaving behind strands of her hair entangled in your cuffs of realities. She wasn’t real or was she ?
The line between reality and imagination blurred and every night took you to that dark night. Her visits frequented to give you comfort. To give you company in your solace . Deep in practise and pain, the images of reality blurred more frequently some days. Those were the days she stayed for too long. You were healing in her presence, getting stronger. The early morning workouts , late night punishments and tiring day didn’t bother you anymore. You were becoming as fit as a fiddle and any day you could shut the book and be in reality forever when one morning it was all lost. You woke up only never to find her again. You searched your room frantically ,delving deep into the write ups that had once consumed you from within. But she had left. You waited and waited and on some days it felt surreal but it had happened. She never lived but only for you. She walked the earth only to be there for you and she breathed the fire that was eating you piece by piece. Now she was gone and along she took your mystery , sorrows and certain passion that only she could light.


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