“you’d want to have sex with your muse?”
“wouldn’t that devalue her?”
“no man. it would be the ultimate thing to do”
it seemed an odd thing to be discussing. the craving we have for a muse. the desires that would take hold should the muse be found. the fulfillment that would come from attainment. achievement. we chit chatted after i slipped into the lull of a voice, words, and the story that keeps playing in my head. we chit chatted as hours slipped away. as i slipped.
i understand the want of her. i understand needing a muse. i understand the ache for inspiration. the instinct to fuck her. i know it all too well. i have waited long.
in waiting, there is the side affect of forgetting. simple things become unknown. clarity is distracted by bokeh. wouldn’t you know it, but between your words and a hug i thought i remembered something. you hugged me but you did so by holding me. you did it without drama. you did it without any implications. you did it without any adverted intentions. maybe it was in my head, but did you hold me for a moment longer than necessary? it was just a hug. the most innocent of affections. but you reminded me of something.
you reminded me of love.
and i remembered i used to think love was my muse.
and then i remembered how love is actually pain.
i remember the pain that remained. i remember that it didn’t leave me with words, it only left a fool who choose love when love didn’t choose her.
but you, you with those thoughts and those ideas. you and the way you use those words. the way you bring Maya to life. the love. the illusion. the deception. the possible truths. you, you made me remember envy. you made me remember lust. and i thought to myself, yeah, if i found her, if i found my muse, i’d fuck her, i’d fuck her into abuse.