It’s been a while. You know how you sometimes write (or sing or paint or otherwise tell a story) with someone in mind? I’m talking about the idea of a muse — that special someone who inspires, the person you most hope will read your post, the one for whom you’d do it, whatever it is, even if they were your entire audience.
Sometimes we’re not even aware we’ve got one. I wasn’t, not really. But we do. I did. And now I kind of don’t. You notice when it’s gone. It leaves a kind of big, empty void, and it becomes hard to pick up and continue as before without it.
Where do we get our inspiration? I envy people who can find it within themselves. I seem to require other people. A wise friend of mine is helping me to learn to love myself, to be fine with being alone. I find myself fighting it, having a hard time imagining it as a goal worth achieving. What good are stories if you have no one to tell them to?
I’m an optimist by nature, and those who know me know I am not one to wallow for long in self-pity. It actually kind of mortifies me. I know that I am luckier by far than 99% of people on this planet, blessed with an abundance of good friends I can count on, a loving family that is not particularly fucked up, good health, a rent-controlled apartment, a comfortable bed, a decent job, and a closetful of nice, ironed shirts.
But I’m also not one to deny my feelings or keep them hidden from those very special friends I’m so lucky to have. You know who you are. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I have been going through a hard time. I’ve lost my muse. Kind of. Maybe not. Maybe he’ll read this. That’s the optimist in me.