There was a woman in my life. She was my muse. He used her for his amusement. It hurt me to see her in pain. She was everything I was not. I was not strong. I was not able. I was capable of doing only the minor while she was a major part of my life. My admiration made her slightly uneasy. It never had a word. we were friends then and that had to be enough.
She was a single mother in her twenties. I was a teenager trying to navigate adulthood with a broken moral compass. I used to sit in her apartment and think of her as my muse. If I could only reach her level of perfection! She was able to keep the patchwork quilt of her life sewn together with dental floss. It was slightly waterproof, able to resist her tears. “WHY do you let him treat you like this? You deserve so much better.” I told her this because she was my muse. I was headed into the spoon. I did not know it then but the rush of instability was on the way. She knew about the unstable. She found a way to stay like the rock she was carved from. Alabaster like her skin.
She was his muse too. Except he had stopped creating anything except the pain I saw in her face. Do not get involved in their relationships. Do not give her advice. I told myself again and again. Yet, she was my muse. She was perfect, ethereal and untouchable. His dirty hands made me want to wash my mind out. I had trouble seeing them together. Why why why why why.
She is happy now. As adults we are happy. She not with a him. Me not with a she. We were friends then. I drifted away to be my own mess but for a brief moment, she was my muse.