Muse To My Art

What? Tell me. Really, are you crazy? How could you think that I would just forget about you? When money and fame cure no illness, no set of miles nor increments of time can separate you from my being. I love you and eternally, only you, for every word ever composed is inspired by one. You are the passion in my heart and the muse to my art that I thrive beside. It’s solely your presence and nothing more do I crave. But if this, here, is all we are, still I can ensure you one thing: that nothing will prevent your beauty from being the final image my eyes cast upon before eternal darkness eradicates my soul–nothing–nothing! Nothing will ever keep me from you–.

Oh, and hello! How are you? Let me just close this door real quick. Hopefully, you didn’t just putter into that little rambling of sorts. Yet, it’s rarely, rarely do I ever have a visitor over, so I’m sure you understand. And obviously I already know why you are here: you came for poetry. Because ha!–what more would you expect from a world-renowned poet? Though I feel, at least initially, this will be a great, great disappointment to you, for there is no poetry today: no, none whatsoever. But I do, in after saying that, have a story for us to read together: a story exclusively from the chapters of my life. However, before this narrative takes course, it is imperative that one must wholly accept the intent is not to camouflage any of my actions nor warp any beholder’s perception, but rather to unbiasedly present the events without fabrication chronologically and concisely as they have unfolded, where there, you, the viewer, can sensibly conclude a reasoning behind my acts: though your reasoning I do not wish to hear. I have nothing to hide and am ashamed of nothing, because crazy–crazy I know I’m not, for love justifies all.

And now, without further ado, let the story begin (where pretentious and lacking of originality that it might sound) with her, being love at first sight. Though doubt me little, for distinctly there I was on a bench consumed by frivolous interactions that my phone provided when I noticed a butterfly from the edge of my periphery flutter by. In quick observation, however, I’d see my glance turn into a stare, where I found myself, there, gazing upon the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen walking to her vehicle. It was then, at that moment, a new life dawned, as scarcely can I recall a memory before her. For when my eyes first rested upon her, my world seemingly accessed another dimension, all of the galaxies for one instant became aligned, and for the first time in my life I understood love. With it being from that juncture, she was all that held weight in the universe. And it was there, without delay, my pursuit of her would begin.

Instinctively, I stood up and headed toward my car. Acquiring her information troubled me the same as reading her license plate. Finding her address was simplistic as following her home. And through steadfast efforts, swiftly did I assimilate the whereabouts of her within in her weekly schedule. Soon I would know everything about her before she even knew of my existence, which there became my first obstacle: for how do you meet someone for a first time when you’ve already shadowed them from the month prior?

Initially, I considered encountering her in a public setting and prompting a conversation then. I ruminated of staging a scenario that I could seem heroic and leap to her rescue. I even contemplated of inquiring for an application wherein an attempt to work beside her. But eventually, to my final deliberation, I decided to write my emotions down on a piece of paper and mail it to her. Though the words written weren’t just any words, they were the words to my first poem.

Two weeks elapsed without correspondence, and the sentiments of distress and rejection began to mount. Though, upon the sixteenth day, I’d find assurance for my mental being within a letter postmarked from her deposited in my mailbox. I was elated, yet relieved, because in another world an idea unorthodox as that surely would not have compassed, but remember, this was our world. After eighteen letters were exchanged and a half-year drew to an end, her and I would officially meet for the first time.

And that day I will never forget, or rather that night: for under a starless winter sky her eyes full of burning hazels lit my world afire. In further darkness of a theatre, her hair shined long as summer days, where still I dream about to early mornings. And consumed by volume of the act, softly, her tones of harmony warmed my soul. In little response, with no words of comprehension for her beauty, all I could do is smile speechless while enthralled by the aura of her bliss. The night, however, progressed, and upon departing, our hands were found interlocked on the way to her car. She laid a kiss upon my cheek before she turned her shoulders, as it was then, I knew I wasn’t crazy. I knew.

We began conversations on the phone and they increased incrementally not exclusively in length but frequency as well. We shared secrets. I knew her favorite color, her favorite animal, I knew her dreams. And my poetry, for her, turned into a nightly ritual. As therapeutic in a sense, I indulged being in thought of, while writing words for her. Because love, in once forever being lost, had found my soul, and in exchange, poetry was its gift. In this duration, life couldn’t have been more fulfilling. Everything was going according to plan, as quickly her and I grew to be best friends. I knew every fathomable thing about her, but not solely because she told me, but because, still, I followed her everywhere she went. As ha!–with the more she told me–the easier it became to monitor her every move.

Though, you wonder yourself mad: because why when she’s already falling in love, why would I continue to follow her? Plainly, never did it concern a lack of trust, nor do I believe I had any malevolence behind following her. In part, I wanted to know she was safe. I obtained assurance in seeing her words corroborate with her acts. I was relieved to see her make it home nightly. But, chiefly, it became a routine. Similar to a cigarette or drug, she, and the pursuit of, became sole catalysts to the warm, ungoverned, erratic rush of adrenaline! She was my high before I knew what drugs–before I knew what cocaine was. And for now, I’ll only allude to that.

So, thereon, in the wake of Spring–three months after our first date–slowly, unexpectedly I began to notice a trend: she was evading me. Our conversations, once frequent and unabridged, turned laconic and seldom. Little substance remained in her words. No secret nor dreams did she continue to share. And a second date seemed anything other than imminent. Though it made no sense–none whatsoever. For every morning–every night–for nearly three months at length–it was her and I on the phone for hours on end! We laughed. We grew. She enjoyed my words, loved my poetry. And yet, nothing had changed in my attitude or demeanor. Still, I was kind. Never did I lie. So, why was she detaching herself from me? There was only one conclusion I could reach and one conclusion only: she had discovered me following her.

Now, there, disturbed I was and wretched in state with no sleep at bay, I can assure you my concern spoke plenty. Heavily did I consider the route I was going to conduct. And true!–I could’ve ceased all physical pursuit. I could’ve waited and bided my time. Instead, I became more cautious in my acts. Further discipline did I enforce. Cleaner execution was to be rendered. Moreover, no longer could I allow myself susceptible to her sight. I purchased and began alternating vehicles. And incognito, I began wearing disguises daily: wigs, make-up, bodysuits, everything needed. When in disguise five feet away, still, you wouldn’t know it was me. I was that skilled–that gifted–that clever! With so much confidence had my precautions instilled, the closer my observations became.

However, through these closer observations, our communication incessantly dwindled. No inquiring of a second date had transpired. No progress took place. Though nonetheless, my passion for her never waned, and my poetry continued to blossom. For as the Sun is to a flower she was to my every word, and the closer, more keenly I saw her, the more beauty and life my poetry possessed. It was that simple. I had to get closer, though already was I consumed; little entered my brain that didn’t compose of her. And slowly time moved, yet, days never ceased to elapse. Soon spring would find its last wind, as by then no longer were calls being returned–no longer were messages being acknowledged. And persistent, yes, but never was I excessive: for only every hour would I attempt to contact her. I gave her space when I perceived her needing space! I was more than understanding and patient. Never did I do anything culpable, for never was it my fault: it was his.

Officially, summer had arrived. For months–for over a year I had pursued her to no avail. Still, my hope never dimmed. My desire never dissipated: with over a thousand poems written being able to confirm that! My poetry, however, solely of warmth, adoration, and romance soon would subsume a new, unfamiliar emotion: heartache.

Early one Sunday morning, before even the first church’s bell, I found myself positioned three houses down bordering her side of the street. An unaccustomed vehicle sat in her driveway, though little at first did I entertain any thought of it. But soon, two hours would elapse from her usual departing time. Slowly the Summer’s sun began to peak into existence. Torrid entities of nature became all-apparent. Minutes drifted into the hours after noon, and yet, still she had not appeared. It was then I became quite curious, skeptical even. Though at length, eventually, I would see the front door open and a man stroll out of the house. In the following moment, she darted out after him, running till her arms were draped around him, and they kissed. He climbed into his vehicle and I started mine. Little in that moment could I comprehend, but behind his vehicle, there I was.

I followed him to his residence, clearly: closely, while never allowing separation for escape. Upon arrival of his house, inanimately I waited for hours outside as my mind channeled no thoughts. The night loomed, though my heart had already disintegrated within. I was speechless; the only word to be spoken was “why?” The world, however, gave me no answer, therefore I went home without committing any nonsensical act or crime of any sorts. Yes, I went home, but not before I recorded the numbers to his address and license plate.

That night, blankly I sat in darkness while perpetually reciting the events within my head. I questioned credence of all religions, for what god would keep her from me? Even my sanity did I question, though, in deep introspection, no inadequacy, wrongdoing, nor malady of mine could I find, as clearly I embodied every attribute of the perfect man! Still, I knew I wasn’t crazy, for only resolve needed was him to disappear. And with the next day commencement of my undertakings would campaign. The intent was never to harm this man: all I wanted was him to get lost! It began as tiny, almost childish acts like gathering animal feces and leaving the collection at his doorstep or putting decaying fishheads under the hood of his vehicle. However, through a week of my bedeviling, their unity only grew. Quite regularly was he in her presence! So, soon, understandably, my acts became more aggravated and volatile.

Upon the ninth night of my campaign against his presence, I found myself with a toolbox and an empty bookbag outside of his house. They, together, left in a limousine, where assuming setting themselves upon a sweet, magical tryst for the evening. I, on the other hand, planned to disassemble the engine within his vehicle. The mere thought of seemed brilliant, though quite possibly I had commenced my acts a tad early in the night, because not even five minutes upon his property, two officers of the law approached me with great caution and uncertainty. Nonetheless, my proper manner and calm parlance convinced them I presented no threat, moreover, no crime was being committed. I explained to them I knew this individual well, explained the simple nature of the business I was conducting. They recorded my name and left without any suspicions and a smile on their face. I, contrarily felt unsettled and unnerved, so abruptly after they had departed, I left as well.

Typically, most days prior, I would contact her fifteen to twenty times a day: with the following day to be of no exception! Before the sheets ever revealed my body and surrendered its warmth, the first attempt to contact her would take place. Though, the number I called carried no life on the other end. My nerves and anxiety instantly found themselves within a tunnel. Every possibility ran through my mind concurrently, and every reasoning did I examine! Yet, later that day clarity would materialize in a form of a knock upon my door: there, to discover a permanent restraining order had been filed stating no longer could I be within a thousand feet of her–no longer could I attempt to contact her. That, however, mattered minute because still, I planned to follow her. The next morning I drove by, but inconveniently she was not there. So, I waited till mid-day–I passed again in the evening–all night I waited outside precisely one-thousand-and-one feet away, yet she never appeared. Quickly, within a week’s span, I realized she was gone and may never come back.

A deep, visceral depression subsequently ensued. My appetite ran scarce. My sleep consumed days, as many nights insomnia would prevail. The practice of my poetry persisted but only as sorrow. Nightly I exhausted all of my energy toward poetry–and only toward poetry–because I knew: one day I would be able to generate such notoriety from my writing that my words would eventually reach her. And no, it was never myself miscalculating nor delusions of grandeur. No, I just knew, even in the earliest stages of my writing, that I am the greatest poet of all-time–and that you can debate upon another time. Regardless, thereon, months would pass, and soon I would begin distributing my compositions to every literary agent, news outlet, and publishing company that I could find. No one, however, was willing to endorse my writing. That’s when I began using drugs. I commenced with alcohol, yet that only made my words appear vapid and incomplete. So, I then proceeded to depressants, but only sleep was ever crafted. I dabbled with anxiety medications, immersed the use of psychedelics, but eventually, I would discover my favorite drug: cocaine.

Under the influence of cocaine, every word became its own study. The mental exertion that I was able to produce was unparallel. For hours upon hours, I could refine one line, as with the aid of cocaine, perfection was obtainable! After six months of cocaine use and editing every previous poem, I began redistributing my recrafted compositions. Still, so many people were wary of my poetic arts, but finally, I found a newspaper company that entrusted in me. It was a small section for poetry printed every Sunday to a small-market that catered to the reading of no more than twenty-five thousand people. The reception of my work, despite the market’s size, was truly remarkable. Though, easily I understand why everyone fell in love with my craft because already I had mastered the art of gothic poetry and was consistently excellent in poems of sorrow, albeit, my greatest pieces were always of love and romance inspired by her.

There was never a day that I didn’t think about her. Every word I wrote in this duration was to bring her closer to me. Every act and every move was for one reason, which is why when the opportunity arrived, I eagerly accepted employment from one of the most prominent newspaper companies in the world. If she hadn’t heard about the growth of my writing, soon she would. The first poem I published with this company was an absolute sensation, but it didn’t cease with one poem. Daily the world woke up to brilliance by me. And with a substantially larger audience my words were like a virus, as my poetry spread unimpededly throughout the country. Seemingly overnight I was the young up-and-coming writer that everyone marveled at. I was being flown around the world for conventions just to hear me speak! Though, despite my undeviating success, an issue subsequently would occur: my thousand poems of romance and love inspired by her were running thin.

By this time the money I had accumulated was supreme. Even the briefest of my compositions sold for the value of some homes, because when you are this talented your worth becomes your desire. Yet, for continued growth, I knew what I had to do. I contacted a private investigator, in hopes of finding her again. Though, because of the sensitivity of a restraining order involved that enterprise was not willing to assist me. Call after call I was dismissed without support. At this juncture, I became extremely, almost vulnerably desperate, so I contacted a friend–a former government agent for assistance: because for the right price, how could anyone say no?

My cocaine usage had easily tripled in amount. I was on edge constantly from the demand of a style of poetry that no longer was I able to compose. Though my friend, a week after our preliminary conversations, confirmed he had found her location. Upon that, he handed me a mailing envelope containing a picture of her. Nearly two years had passed since I last saw her image. That night, visual harmony warmed my soul. All I wrote were poems of romance and love, as still, she was the beauty in my art. Again, I knew I had to get closer, and that I did, but to what extent?

Once I had her address I purchased all of her neighboring houses. I invested wisely upon a team of highly trusted and trained investigators. I paid them well, incredibly well, so none of them would ever expose of my acts! But today, I’m going to show you what I’ve concealed for all of these years: behind this door. I call it “My writing room” but more resembles a museum of her. Go ahead, walk inside. Before you are twenty-two monitors with film of her yesterday’s every move from every angle and view you could ever fathom. In the middle of this room, you see a large oblong table with razorblades, rolled-up dollar bills, and a mound of cocaine resting upon. On the far wall, there lies shelving of lost treasures and mementos that she once possessed; I even have strands of her hair in a jar!

And true, for forty-two years, I’ve had an option of a dozen different rooms, but it’s only this room have I ever chose: with the happiest of my moments deriving from art generated in this room. Though nearly entombed within these four walls, I can avow time has unremittingly dragged my soul through this process of aging. Clearly, no longer am I a young up-and-coming writer. My hair has thinned to a bright silver and wrinkles cover the surface of skin now sagging off my limbs. Physically I am prematurely decrepit from decades of drug use and am now moribund. Little does life have left to offer, as senses become perceptible to the fact death is approaching: I know I have only a few days left. Nevertheless, fully have I accepted what we all call our final fate.

Behind I leave a legacy of art solely inspired by her. Forever the world will see her beauty through my eyes. And now, with this, here, being my final composition–the final piece that my muse inspires, I shut this door to one final, simple, departing question: If you saw a person steal your heart at first sight–discovered someone with the ability to freeze the entirety of your world while making you feel warm and complete–found someone who made everyone else negligible, would you find out their name, pursue them, try nonpareil to make them a part of your life? Or would you let them walk away and to live never knowing what could’ve been? Maybe, just maybe, I’m not that crazy after all. Or maybe, you’ve just never felt what I feel when I look at her. Good-bye.

27 Comments

  1. This. 💙 Deeply enjoyed many of your lines but here are three:

    “…your reasoning I do not wish to hear. I have nothing to hide and am ashamed of nothing, because crazy–crazy I know I’m not, for love justifies all.”

    “Every word became its own study.”

    “I knew her favorite color, her favorite animal, I knew her dreams.”

    Liked by 6 people

  2. Reading this, I initially thought it would be a happy romantic love story. Many twists and turns later, I got wrapped up in the endless drama, mostly because I’m all too familiar with those feelings. I was married and in love for 39 years and discovered my husband having an affair with a trashy waitress. I did a lot of investigating and following, and my heart was broken and my mind was a mess. I could relate to all those feelings. That’s what makes a great story. People can relate and feel. 👍

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I loved it, Bryan. Also an unexpected surprise because I wanted to thank you for following my new blog The Wildart Wanderer. I’m going back to the drawing board because your words have inspired me. Thanks.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Well now. That was an experience. The style is nearly flawless. Obviously you have honed your craft! This may seem odd, but have you ever read excerpts from the diary for Josef Goebbels? I know he mocked one of his lovers for leaving him to marry another man. He said, and to think now she’d be the wife of the Minister of Propaganda! But then when that man got got, he gave her a secretary’s job in the Ministry of Propaganda. But he didn’t see her. Daha.

    Anyway, yes, that was quite a journey. You caught me pretty quickly, and kept me. I was wondering where this would go. Although part of me is certain that you are still in the phase of becoming known. But the rest of the revenge fantasy didn’t disappoint. I honestly thought about my certainty that Morrissey now writes his songs of loneliness and frustration from a bed made of money in one of 7 houses. None of which he calls “home.”

    Lovely though. Where is your other work?

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Well then how did you develop the neo-gothic style? It’s very well done. You must have read some gothic fiction. But, kudos on creating a creeping, patient character. It’s a character who challenges you to sympathize with him. Because he never actually commits violence. He did “success is the best revenge.” The fact that he terrorized this couple becomes lost in the absorbing narrator.

        It’s obviously a character we all know. The incell/Columbine kid. So he is loaded with the potential for violence. People like these characters though. Travis Bickle, Kylo Ren, the new Joker movie. Same type. Different ends.

        I must add though, that Niles Crane once observed something to the effect that he’s never seen an opera in which the protagonist gets his revenge by becoming a highly successful small business owner. Or something silly like that. So, in the final reveal of where the narrator is speaking from. Is it really so horrible? I return to the image of the aging, lonely, “highly sensitive,” rock star who made a fortune on being lonely, highly sensitive, and writing songs about how he’d be lonely and sad forever because he’s so highly sensitive. But now he’s writing these songs from one random house in the Alps, while laying on a money bed. Does he have it so bad? Sure, the obsession, the muse, drives both of these men. I can’t feel too bad. Because, whatever bullshit they pulled, is lost in the mythos.

        So I don’t know. This guy didn’t end up like a victim in Se7en. Or putting the head in the box. I don’t know if he ever “paid” for his obsession enough. But it does makes me think about the romance of this toxic character. Like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver, or Holden Caulfield, or Kylo Ren, these are sick people we know too well today IRL. It’s difficult to grapple with my feelings about this guy and his end.

        Like

  5. Oh. Shared. I also enjoyed the narrator’s lack of self-awareness. Reading it felt a bit like the scene in Silence of the Lambs in which Bill has turned off the lights, and we can only see Jodie Foster Bill’s through his nightvision goggles. Good creeper.

    Liked by 1 person

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