I do not know why I still write about you. You are at the back of my mind falling into my conscious mind. Feelings resurface. Words are formed. I convince myself I moved on already. But I can’t will myself to stop. I have to let these feelings out of my system – the bliss, the pain, the hatred, or I might explode if I won’t. Whatever it is, I know I would scribble silly poems and cheesy prose for you, my muse. You will forever be the subject of my creations.
A few years later:
At first, I thought you are angry. You would not talk to me. I let you – thinking it is only a phase. Days went by and still nothing. Days stretched to weeks and weeks to months. That is when I realized you are not coming back. You left me.
It seems like you have no plans of ever returning. I still write but it is not the same. I lost you forever.
A few days after:
Is this how it feels like without you? The memory of both euphoria and sadness is vague. I never write without you. Now you are gone, I feel like it is the end of my creative pursuit. Every word is a drag. I lose the motivation to go on. I want the idea of you back so I could do it again.
Tick, tock! Time is still running:
Is this how it feels like to be empty? I can stare at anything – paper, computer screen, or a wall. Still nothing. I can’t bear it anymore.
Every word is a strain on the brain. Every idea melts in the abyss of oblivion – forgotten and never retrieved. How can I achieve the writing that is as fluid as water, as smooth as butter? Should I accept that I will never be as good when you were there?
The other day:
I am feeling underwhelmed with the wisdom sucked out of me. I am trying to keep my writing alive. But I lost the inspiration and the motivation. The dam is empty, the creative juice dry. Another day, maybe. I know waiting for you to come back is like waiting for the end of the world. There is the possibility of it happening and also a likability it won’t.
That’s it! This is the day when I decide not to lose it all. I will do it without you. I realized that writing is not dependent on inspiration and motivation. It is a discipline. It is the exercise of the brain. Write every day, not when I feel like it. If today I can write 100 words, I will do 200 words tomorrow. Then 500, 700, 1000 until I complete a novel. Write even if it does not make sense. Write even if it sucks. I must do it and surely I will get something out of it.
Goodbye now, my muse. I unshackle the chain that binds me to you. Let go and move on!