The MuseShe was the self-proclaimed muse, and the quality of my art should not be telling on her beauty. The eyes were ethereal and the smile, ever-present. She obviously bathed in a fountain of optimism, far from the withered tree of self-loathing under which I lived. The match, if I may call it so, was unlikely. I was often afraid of polluting the beautiful world that she lived in, I was afraid of her becoming someone like myself, and if that were to happen, I would have no option other than hating her.
I didnt know what she liked in me or my works, assuming she considered them as two separate things. She was a piece my pieces of art had created, cannibalizing and compounding amongst themselves, reducing every shred of darkness until only the pure, only the bright remained and it looked like her.
Naivety is a gift, often a disease and either way she was changing. Maybe she saw through the hollowness of the art, maybe she just outgrew and latched onto a new fad, I will never know