A Muse Me

Did you ever look at a piece of art or listen to a section of music and wonder of its origins and inspirations? Did you ever want to claim it for your own, not as the composer or writer but as it’s inspiration? Did you ever stand back and look for your reflection in the streams of colour or words and looking to see yourself as a Lear or even a Gaia.

Sometimes notes strike a chord that resonates so clearly on a personal level that you want to wrap yourself around it so that no-one else can drink it in. But conversely, what if the reflection of that inspiration is too murky or painfully sharp. Like a burning wreckage on the side of the road that you can’t look away from and it’s Eris or Apateo that sneers back viciously from the twists in melting glass.

Sometimes its wiser to remain a spectator. Simpler to just enjoy the art and try not to consider the big picture. Sometimes it’s better to just be happy with being one of a million strings that draws something together that to selfishly gather it to yourself and find you’ve been fated to be the Magpie in the corner.

The Cold Fires Began

I put the phone down on the counter and looked around having no recollection how I had made my way to the kitchen. Realising the unsteadiness of my legs I blew out a long cold kiss into the air and fell back against the wall. The second hand on clock seemed stunted, caught in the last second, unable to move on to the next. The narrow rectangular room swirled.

I leaned forward and pushed the phone to the back of the counter as if to distance myself from what had just occurred. It wasn’t enough and so to somehow trap the words I turned the screen on it’s face and slid down the cool of the linoleum floor. There I sat until He returned home, made me tea and sat beside me holding my hand and letting me feast on his body heat.