The Muse

 My heart sunk as I saw my deepest of horrors, my eyes bled with pain, and the intense coil in my chest could not increase further than this. I was defeated, and my existence didn’t seem to make sense anymore. I was short of breath, as I saw my muse, my one and only everything, no longer exist, he quite did, but not the way he used to, he existed in a way I couldn’t recognize. He was a changed man, his face was not familiar, and his soul, dark and patched with pleasure. I cried and cried with the immense loss which was incomparable with anything. I could sell my soul to bring him back, I could fly away and never look back, rather than seeing him like this, in utter misery. This reminded me of the greatest of despair- the story of Basil Hallward and Dorian Gray.

The difference, I believe, was between the painting and the writing. My muse was poetic, alive, and yellow. I studied few months apart to find him back home in the dark. I blame myself and hide my face in sorrow to leave him behind; I know it was all my mistake. I wish I had never left. I wish I had seen him, taken care of him, just like the most delicate pieces of antiques.

Sight of him was eating me alive, I couldn’t stand beauty patched away with a sinful mask. I knew I could help him get back himself but he didn’t want my help; he liked the way he was being. I felt current running up my back as I read those words through his lips, I felt more hurt and despair. I couldn’t help a person who had already lost his sense of being. I was yet again contemplating. I lost my senses and my will to live. Rather than looking at it every day, I would wish to die instead, and that’s exactly what I did. I couldn’t handle the pain and ended it once and for all.

My spirit flew around still, they say I never and will never get the peace because the day I died my muse said to me “Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”