You Are My Muse

Every writer has their own muse. Every word I write comes from the depths of my heart. This overwhelming feeling of mine resonates so loudly that even the angels above could hear me without a spoken word.

Love isn’t my muse. Perhaps it once was, or maybe it never was. If you could decipher this letter, you would uncover what lies beneath these words. I prefer to keep everything discreet until someone discerns the hidden meaning. Maybe you’re still reading, feeling puzzled and uncertain. But if you persevere until the end, your questions will find answers from the logical side of your brain.

Vague, as I describe it. My vision blurs like raindrops on a windowpane on a rainy morning. My task seems near impossible. Right now, I face a closed door leading nowhere. As I gaze at a randomly scaled photo, I find myself unable to reconcile my own fantasies. I’ve lost track already. Are you lost too? Is this not your forte?

I drift back into space, seeking the astronaut I left behind a week ago. He vanished upon my return. Perhaps gravity could no longer tether him, or maybe he ventured straight into the Milky Way. Enamored with the idea of infinity, I once believed anything was possible. Until I encountered a dead end. Just one question and everything unraveled.

No one saw this coming, or maybe you did. I never imagined I could fall so deeply. Unaware that you had become my sunshine, my sunflower, my autumn. Unaware that you had become my muse. As I conclude this passage, I know you already understand. If not, should I assist in decoding my own letter? By the way, you are my muse.