Falling Softly or Not at All

When you fall softly it’s as if you never fell at all, the calm before the storm is all there is, and the butterflies and fanfare will just have to wait, because this time is about the silence, not the stardust.

To be honest, I didn’t even know I was gone until more than a month later I still had him on replay. Him looping in my head had my hand looping out letters and it suddenly became very clear to me what the word ‘muse’ meant. I know. I made fun of those people too. So what’s a girl to do? Two weeks of pure, beautiful inspiration, a month drinking from a finite pool of motivation, and how long suckling from the drying edges of the font du richesse? How long before my terminal case of word block returns? Because it will. There may be a treatment but it is not a cure, and this is one kind of care not covered by my insurance.

Even now the sips are fleeting, little doses of oomph that come and go as they please. I cannot conjure willingly what before stirred my heart to such downplayed, understated peace as to entrap my attention — so long used to wandering — for the weeks that have passed.

I dance around the subject because I cannot pin it down, I speak in such aimless circles because I cannot speak clearly, the heart of the matter is a feeling, and it will not be described. There is no click, no sigh of relief as perfection is reached, no racing of the heart or tingling of the fingertips, no uncontrollable smiling or bells ringing in a future so clear it must be heard today. There is no bliss, no moment of truth. There is only that I cannot shake him, and I do not want to.

For someone Love avoids avidly, there is always the knowledge of what cannot be. But for me, who is bored to death by Love, and surely must bore it in return: our relationship can only be described as mutual starvation. It is not something that cannot or must not be, but a plane distinct and separate from my own. Two parallel lines do not touch. Straight lines don’t exist in nature.

Luckily for me it was fleeting, a bright spark of impossibility to tempt the ink from my pen, my fingers to the keys.

Impossible love is safe love, objectified love, artistic love. A source of inspiration. A dash of realism. That one painter that uses all the bright colours but only ever paints in the abstract.

Artistic love is what turns your mind into a rock tumblr and my writing into stone, what makes my voice sticky in your ear — my words the coffee you had on the way to work the day you forgot your gum.

Artistic love is pretend love, an obsession that turns a man into a muse. It doesn’t seem like it should be so calm, so soft, so quiet. But it doesn’t seem like I would ever fall for (even artistically) any person that could be described as calm, or soft, or quiet. But here we are, at the end of a post I don’t even have a blog for, tapped out on an iPhone when I’m supposed to be packing, all because we sang Disney songs together by the pool, and he read me pride and prejudice on the beach.

Written in Barcelona, Catalunya.

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