Every artist has a feed of inspiration… I do my best creating when I am inspired. Usually my losses inspire me, but I have met a new kind of loss. I have met the loss of my muse.
A few things made me buzz in the months prior. I had met something in my life that led me to create out of happiness, out of confusion and out of love. For once I was creating while I felt alive. I had become so familiar with creating after I had lost that life. I was buzzing, here and there, to and from different emotions, reveling in each one of them. I was embracing my muse, and I was running with it.
Before this series of events I had not held any inspiration in my hands and analyzed it so freely. It was always after the fact, I would never create about what inspired me. I had learned to create in the midst of a loss of inspiration. This time it was different.
I did not let all feelings fly free range, run amuck within my mind. This time, I reigned them in, looked at my inspiration and fed off of it. Now, I am meeting the part in the story where that muse leaves me. And in turn, the things that I have created within this half of a year, they leave me as well.
These things, this art, this capturing of a heart and it’s musings, have all submissively turned to dust. Turned to dust within my grasping hands.
And the same as before, I squeeze harder and harder to hold on to any bit of energy I may have conserved. I squeeze the life out of my creativity, the hope out of my soul, and the sparkle that has been the only captivating factor of these brown and pained eyes.
I squeeze so hard trying to hold onto what makes me imaginative, what keeps me afloat, that I have crushed these things into pieces that are just too unsubstantial to be able to put back together.
I have met the part of my story where my muse leaves me, and I turn from amused to reclusive. From fire, burning so dangerously hot that I had peaked at a blue state, able to melt the things closest to me. Then with falling flames and flailing arms, I retreated, to a place where there is no fuel left for me to burn from, where there is nothing for me to ignite, and it is as if, I’ve cycled back into an earthly oblivion. As if I have finally, inevitably and despairingly, turned to a grey and purposeless pile of ash.