#128 Lost My Muse

#128 Lost My Muse


Van Gogh cut off his ear to give to his muse. What was I to do? I had lost mine and as an artist my career was over unless I could get her to return. Last summer I rented a cottage on a lake surrounded by trees much older than I, hoping to find her in that place where a saw mill stood. With the singing saw slicing through newly downed trees, I hoped a recently released forest nymph may find a home with me.

I brought canvases and paint in the hope I’d create, but though I prayed, everything remained blank. One midnight when the moon was almost full; I took a stroll and found myself deep in the woods. Though the moonlight lit the trail, I soon got lost, and fear crept up my back.

The saw sang throughout the night, I heard a wolf howling at the moon. That brought back memories of childhood fear, and I began to shake. Then I saw her lithely bounding through the woods. The nymph I’d been searching for. I ran after her, and when she stopped, I timidly approached. She sniffed the air and didn’t run.

I softly touched her exquisite skin. She kissed my hand and then ran her tongue over my salty ,sweat stained face. I massaged her temples and then her chest with both hands. It came to me then; creative juices ran through me. I’d found my muse.

I led her to where my empty canvases stood and filled them with colorful shapes I’d never seen or imagined before. Daybreak sent heavenly rays through the dreary night sky with incredible light surrounding my freshly painted canvases showing visions of loveliness I painted during the night.

Then I realized she was no longer there. My creativity dried up at the thought of her not watching over me. Instinct told me she was a creature of the night, and I’d have to paint by moonlight for her to guide me.

I prepared for a painting frenzy and could hardly wait until night to bring out the momentous talent she granted me. Imagining her running through the woods, I wanted to tell her in the name of love I worshiped her and dwelled on our future possibilities.

I waited without a trace of her and prayed that I’d see her face so I could be an artist again. Promising the powers above that I’d be faithful, and my heart belonged to only her. I began to paint with my blood. She stood before me, the woman of my nightmares whom I’ve always dreaded, with my heart in hater hand. She’d eat me alive if given the chance.

I reached for my heart. She cut off my hands with a glance and placed my still beating heart in her mouth, swallowing it with a gulp.  She smiled at me with blood stained lips.

Since that night, my heart isn’t in painting, and I can no longer hold a brush with stumps. I’m now an empty, heartless shell of an artist who lost not only my heart and hands, but my mind while searching for a muse who turned out to be Freddy Krueger’s sister.



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