The Muse

The air is dry and the awkward feeling of unfamiliar stares is filling up the air, that same air that I'm breathing. I walk on a narrow corridor, but no matter how simple the task is, it feels like a maze.

A lonely drop makes it's way through my neck into my back and I can tell my hands are shaking. Clad in my best pretend smile, I walk confidently, but I can't avoid staring at the floor every second, when it happened. You looked up, and then down.

That was it. My mind rushed, my smile faded, my hands stopped shaking, and I was just... hypnotized, I was diving, I was flying, I was breathing, I was choking. I've heard of you before, your name is familiar but the moment I looked into your eyes, all my world came crashing down like a wave inside a cave. I thought I could handle it, until I heard your music, because I've always found you fascinating, but it was your sound what captivated me.

All I want now is to keep this, but the hardest part is, we walk the same road, we have the same beat, I need to act oblivious, I pretend I don't see you, I have to keep from burning too brightly, or else, I'll scare you. Step by step, it is gradual, I make it seem casual, like a growing tide, I get closer a little at a time and pull back when you're near. We are dancing on thin ice, my face is not giving me away, a wild fire is growing, and you are oxygen, you are a storm, you can't be contained.

The world desires you, but you always prevail untainted, unscathed, like a bird in the wind, like a dreamer in a nightmare, you are lightning without thunder, you silent grace will ensnare the strongest heart and enslave the coldest mind. You are my muse.

Awake

It's spinning slowly, I wonder if that's the actual speed or just time running slowly. There is sweat in my chest, and the faint glow of red neon on the wall takes me to a sixties detective novel.

Asleep, next to me, lies a woman I've never met before. Her face is shrouded in mist with silver linen covering her mesmerizing body. The fragrance covering the room reminds me of a long lost sense of innocence, and her steady breathing is more soothing than a lullaby. Everything is in place, everything is how I wanted it to be. Yet, I might as well be falling in a bottomless pit. It feels the same.

The muse of my dreams no longer sings to me, and her usually gentle caress feels now like a condescending touch. I've lost the spark of fantasy and replaced it with stone cold reality. The more I long her presence, the further away it is.

What good is finding the road when all you enjoy is mud between your toes? What good is choosing a path, when the beauty of life lies in the possibilities? What worth is there in settling down, when losing yourself while soaring is so addictive?