Teasing Rainy Season: A Eulogy To My Muse I Want to Fall In Love With
(Much personal than I’d expected. For people who find their muses endearing.)
You don’t know me.
And, there’s also a possibility I don’t really know you that much, too.
In the midst of my religious maraud for new creative entities, you just came like a point-blank shot, digging out my desire to label you instantaneously as my newfound lover — escorting you to my bedchamber of poetry and words, stripping you completely just to marvel at your beauty and sing ballads about it. An affection I predicated as I watch you act like it’s your last breath. How can you even do that? Not failing to get me mesmerized every single day. You’re enveloped with sadness, madness, hatred, and isolation like it’s very normal to remove yourself and embrace the human suit you portray. Passion, passion, passion: that’s your middle name.
My sentiment grew and formed into imaginations of glory and love. Spending time contemplating how it works and late afternoon love-making with its sensation became my pastime — obsession even. As I walk through the halls of my memory lane, the portraits of my past muses whisper not so delicately on my ear how I treat you differently compared to them, like you’re special and not just a causal of inspiration — that maybe, they blow the subtlest wind, I have fallen in love with you.
But I always think so lowly of love. The semantic of the said word was changed by generations and cultures that it lost its core essence, transposed a facetious message to the receiver, at the same time not having the full morbid sensation the sender wanted to transcend to that special individual. It saddens me, yet completely understands the risks of having a word for a strong affection, and for a person who falls in love almost like everyday, ‘love’ doesn’t hold an exceptional meaning to my moral and intently, emotional vocabulary. It holds no prominent significance and symbolism, and now, it just ruins the should-be innocent and untouched ardor of mine to you — a retaliation to contemplate and judge if am I really in love with you, or am I really ‘in love’ with you.
All I wanted was to be more than in love with him. And I realised, I don’t need a word for that.
You’re not aware but you’ve been always serenading me; sometimes with songs, often with the art of your acting, but most of the time, by your seductive talents. You are one of a kind and it makes me crave more of you. I’m starting to respire your voice and laugh at your wittiness we share together which I can only imagine happening in the depths of my mind. I began singing David Bowie with conveyed fantasy you’ll sing with me too. But most of all, I’m imagining a future of poetry and unnamed feelings where I’m writing reality with you. I’m doomed, I know. But maybe, being doomed for your sake is not bad at all.
Don’t worry, I know the difference between possibility and delusions — wretched desire and doting adoration. I don’t want you to find out this clandestine letter, together with the twisted desire for you to find it and see what your existence can do to me. And again, don’t worry. I’m not in love with you. No, not yet. But I wanted to. I don’t want you to be a mere muse used for my own artistic benefits. I want to know your flaws and scars. I’m done kissing and praising every bits of your skin, let’s talk about it and see our similarities and differences.
And again, don’t worry. I know it’s impossible.
This is a long process. I’ll try to unlove you and see if you’re really different from my past lovers. If you are, I’ll come and find you. Confess and goodbye. Look, but I’ll never touch.
Circumstances be damned, I want to meet you. Feelings should be said for someone to appreciate. Fully for your sake, I’m going to make you see and realise you’re definitely something else.
Dearest muse, I want to fall in love with you in ways that words can’t explain,
that wordsmiths can’t obtain,
that voices in my head can’t dictate.
You’re worth it.
You are worth a heartbreak and desire.
