I used to write a lot before we met. The gentle muse of an old soul trapped forever in an earthly vessel. Love was something that was pure fiction in my mind. Perhaps it was not fiction at that point. In life I made principles. In life I’ve made mistakes. Someone to love was always what I sought. In a world of too many people I always felt alone. Writing became something I could create. Writing made me happy.
Too many disappointments have come my way and in a similar fashion I left my old self behind. I believed I was once pure and untainted. I was filled with rage and anger but also hope and faith. Many sunsets have passed since then and I find myself once again lost with no direction. I have not written anything lately. Nothing that had no goal. Reports and essays later, I find myself back on the ground beginning again.
This time however, my hair has greyed and my face is different. Am I still the same person? I’ve tried to regain composure. To become the me who had ideals and fantasies about things that could happen and might happen. I used to dream of fantastic beasts, love stories that would break your heart. Now I am here, an empty husk of who I used to be. Looking to be who I once was.
I grasp at tendrils of inspiration that used to waft around me. Like a bon fire that has gone on too long, I am left with only the charred earth and fading embers. I thought to myself, I should write about something I know, but what do I know the best. The cursive lines that make up letters, the construction of sentences. These are to keep me calm and to keep me going. I decided that this should be my story of how you became my story.
The first time I saw you, as you like to hear me repeat, was a sunny evening much too warm for me to enjoy. I was ready and waiting yet again for people who dawdle and delay. I realise now that I thought those people were my whole life and now, I hardly know them. The funny thing here was someone who came through the foyer, into the corridor looking like she was looking for someone. I don’t think you can remember it in this much detail, but somehow or rather that image stuck with me. Perhaps I was meant to remember it like so many other details that seem so insignificant when they occur.
If I could go back in time, I would. If only to see you for the first time again. To see the first day of the rest of my life. If only I knew the significance of that meeting, but I feel for both of us, it was just another day. It is funny in a way, how simple moments like these could somehow define the rest of our lives. On day one that I first met you, you were as insignificant to me as the person who stops next to me at the next red light.
Two thousand two hundred and fifty three days later (27/09), I find myself searching for a muse again and the only thing I could think about was the story of us.