Tears run down my eyes. They become part of my poster.
The ink from my pen bleeds out as I cry softly and desperately, gnawing at the disappointment that I can't touch the very treasure I so eagerly wanted.
Why can't I be like my muses?
I stare at the poster I created from the glowing screen. There's a lake in the middle, enshrined with different flowers, especially lilies, since that's the one he liked the most. I look for the tiniest details, since I can't grasp my own artworks. The area surrounding the lake is grassy, but the rest? Blurry and barren. I don't know why.
I will never know why.
The sky is bright. Everything but the ground is pleasant. The two people facing each other on different sides of the lake are filled with thorny vines, one bleeding, and one feeling nothing. The one with the blood all over him stares at the sun, looking for a final warmth before succumbing to his fate.
It's as if it's me who's bleeding. Not him. My muse.
I close my device. “I'll add the details later”, I note to myself. I turn over to see that my lampshade, now flickering with what little life it has, is still on. I go to my table, worn out, and try to fix my things in a hurry before the light runs out.
It's just like me.
While fixing the scattered papers around my table, I see a tear-filled paper. The ink was slightly ruined when I tried to read it, and when I did, I stopped in my tracks. It was a letter from my muse from earlier. He didn't try to fill the page with flowery words and fancy style, but he did write three words that shattered me:
“I loved you.”
I looked back at the memories. My mind kept racing. “What could I possibly have done to provoke him?” was the same thought I had ever since he threw me aside. I remember what I felt then—depressed, empty, narrow, and had nothing to give—and until this day, I still do feel those things. I tucked in that letter to my cabinet to where no one could see it. I took three steps before my legs couldn't handle the emotion, and I fell.
“Pathetic. I couldn't even reach my bed.”
Once I had gotten up again and reached my bed, I immediately started to calm down. I reached for my notebook, filled with scribbles of my love letters I couldn't and wouldn't give to him, filled with corrections. I fell into a deep state of thought, but this time, it was worse than ever. The light dimmed, and all I ever had was my own mind and my muses.
“Is that all I'll ever be?”
I had a massive migraine. I covered my face, groaned in pain, and laid face down. Suddenly, a notification rang out from my phone, seemingly curing my migraine. My vision was blurry from the edges, but I could see the message:
“Hey, this is my confession. I hope for a response.”
My heart raced from excitement. I was mentally jumping up and down. When I saw the confession, he had painted a painting of me, jumping around a bright field with flowers, while I was staring at him. When I saw his face, it was like a dream. I wondered what else I'd experienced from him. The dates we'd go to, the movies we'd watch, anything that could I imagine.
The rope held firm.
I didn't really receive that notification. It was all a ploy of my mind to distract myself from what I was doing. As I took my last breath, my body never fighting back, I thought if I could finally be the muse. All my life, I'd been the one immortalizing the people that I knew and loved. The countless stories that I wrote, the songs I dedicated to, the stanzas I carefully crafted for my love, and the posters I'd created just to be seen. I thought of all of my work. I thought of my last ploy.
When will I be the muse? When will I be the subject?
Written by Beaker, Insight PH
Beaker, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
