Tag Archives: muse

Heathcliff

I just want you back.

I know you will break my heart again, but I am familiar with that pain now. I have grown to love the curves of its form, and the weight of it in my chest. How occasionally it stirs to beat against my ribs in rhythm with my heart, just to remind me it is still there.

My lungs have learnt how to breath around it now.

And though sometimes it still curls me into a ball, and opens the tear ducts of my eyes, it has become an old friend.

You will break my heart, but I am okay with that. I have lived in the ruins you’ve left behind for years, and found within the rubble that somehow, I still love you.

I still love you, and I can survive you.

Why would I risk being broken by anyone else, when I know that?

Ours has always been the type of love that books are written about. And I’d take Heathcliff over something ordinary any day.

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When the Muse comes Calling

As I mentioned in my last post, I am overwhelmed with assignments for University right now. 

So what better time for the muse to sidle in? And she comes bearing such tempting gifts as well… 

I gave in. How could I not? I love what I study, and I want to do well in it. Some part of my life will always be dedicated to maths. However, writing has always been my first calling, and when it comes down to working on my assignments and writing a scene that promises so much, I can never seem to walk away from the writing… So this morning, before eating or getting a hot coffee in my hand, I huddled in my dressing gown on my bed and wrote. 

In case you are wondering; it is winter in my area of the world. And my room which is devoid of morning (or even evening) sunlight, though lovely, has a bite to it when it comes to being cold. However, I can forgive it that when it is large enough for my bookshelf to be within reach of my bed. I do not even need to leave the warmth of my blankets to escape into a myriad of different universes. And what is happiness, if not that?

The gift my muse has brought is an odd one. Strange, and precious. Fragile. It is like nothing I have written before, and sometimes I get frightened writing it. It feels as if the way it is written cannot sustain a whole book. That it is more suited to musings, and short stories, that there is not enough of anything to weave a plot.

I am getting better at ignoring doubt however. I carefully lock the voice up in a soundproof room where it can echo back on itself rather than on me. 

Maybe what I have cannot sustain a book. Maybe it can. There are books out there that have an eerie isolation to them, and yet most definitely have plot. Neil Gaiman’s book, ‘The Ocean at the End of the Lane’ for one. ‘The Night Circus’ by Erin Morgenstern another. Both of which if you haven’t read, I highly recommend. Very highly. (And with those, though of a different feel to it, is Patrick Rothfuss’s novels. He is a genius.)
In the end though, I am writing, and I am enjoying. Is that not what matters? That I am losing myself in a story, and practicing my craft? It is much better than where I have been lately, where I have been caught in a story that I cannot seem to immerse myself in. I love it, but currently I am getting no where with it, and it has been affecting me.

So even though her timing, as always, is the most inconvenient, I welcomed the muse so warmly that I think I almost scared her away. Though I hope it will, upon reflection, cause her to want to come visit more often. 

It feels good to love a story again. To get lost in it, and be swept away by its charms. 

A new story like this is the beginning of a grand love affair, if without there being another human involved…