Dearest muse of mine,

You were the first real thing that made my pencil move to write rhymes. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I do know why—you somehow drove me to it. I, who didn’t even know what I was doing, took my first step into the wonderful world of words. It’s been quite a ride.

Litter darling muse, you weren’t the first thing to inspire me. Art, nature, abstract things like ideas, even beliefs—all these things have inspired me before. But it’s always been just a jumbled mess of basic words like “bat” and “mat” and “cat”. When you came, my head went silent. I just closed my eyes and I felt the words. It’s magical. It was and still is. I’ll always treasure this. I wish I had the courage to tell you.

Precious muse, I found something I wrote four years ago. Have you ever gotten flashbacks of your early days learning the guitar? Placing the wrong fingers, getting the wrong chords, not even being able to strum properly? It must be embarrassing. That’s how I felt when I saw those cheesy lines. I still need to learn a lot. I’ll get there, though. I’ll make sure of it.

Lovely muse, thank you for five years of inspiration. Of poetry and imagination. With every “what if” came pain, but I also gained from it. I’ve created hundreds of lines and verses from strands of thoughts. Of you.

Sweet muse, I’m sorry, but I’ve started to forget little things about you. The stream from the river called Life has carried you a long way, and remnants of you shall remain, stuck in the banks. Yet, it’s only a matter of time before you’re carried off to the sea as a forgotten fragment from my past. These days, I can’t always remember your smile, your eyes, and even how you made me feel once upon a time.

I’m afraid, dear muse. What I’ll create with only thought could never compare to those carved by sentiments of the heart. The last two years, I’ve opened up my old wounds over and over again, fearing I’ll cease to feel inspired and the only thing I’ll write down are to-do lists and class notes. I was afraid the only stories I’ll write are for writing exams I need to pass. But I can’t live like that forever. I don’t want to. And as afraid as I am now, it’s even more terrifying to think I can’t find any other thing in this vast universe to inspire me.

Treasured muse, you’re a gem too heavy for me to keep carrying. I thought about throwing you away, but I never really had you, right? You’re a free creature—it’s why I, with all my insecurities (more than now, anyway), chose you in the first place. You see… a muse to me is a picture, an image, a being, containing what one doesn’t have but needs to see and feel and experience in order to create. You were just that for me. Yes—were. As in… past tense.

Glorious muse, you’ll never read this. You’ll never know. It’s frustrating but also a relief, since I know it’s not nice to barge in on someone’s life when you’re no longer a part of it. I didn’t know what we had—or if we ever had anything at all—but whatever it is, I enjoyed it.

Beautiful muse, I’ll never forget what you once meant to me. You simply see the beauty in everything, and I saw the simple beauty that is you. I’ve caught a glimpse of your world, and how wonderful it is! Now I have to make my own way. One day, I’ll see everything in its beauty just like you, just not how you do it.

Beloved muse, I’m running out of words again. For now, at least. They’ll come to me again, I’m sure. It’s sad, really—I’ve written thousands of words about you and because of you, but never once have I told this or shown a piece to you. And the millions of words still to come… well, some of them will be about you, but they’ll be about other things too.

I started this letter with the word “dearest”, and dearest you have been. But you won’t always be, sadly. This is my goodbye and farewell. Once again, thank you.

When I find my next muse, my next inspiration, whomever or whatever it may be, I’ll write better things in a better way as best as I can. I’ll have learnt more vocabulary, learnt to rhyme better, express myself freer. Still, remember this: you’ll always be the first one. And that can’t ever be changed by anyone.

Besides… who else can get me out of bed at 2.30 am to grab a pen and clipboard and start writing—on a toilet seat?

My love and prayers,

a shadow from your past

July 20th 2014