Some days I feel like something in immaculate packaging. First edition; maybe a collector’s item. Take a look, there are no parts missing, no visible cracks.
Take a closer look, see the cogs whirring; if you’re sharp enough, you may see the lack of a certain… je ne sais quoi. I’m a walking, talking defected piece.
Every action is a form of false advertising on which I rely. Invest in me, and for the most part, I won’t let you down. The seamless attitude I will make you buy, lies every show of calm, laughter and wit.
Like an automaton forced to overdrive, I’ll smile through the strain and earn my place.
After all, can’t you tell my worth?
You asked me when you’d be my muse.
You asked it laughingly, playfully.
My injured pride kept me silent. The lump in my throat held me back.
Can’t you see? All I create; all my words, whether they be written on paper, or scored into the crevices of my heart. Every letter. They are all yours.
“Oh, my dear, of course I love him. But I am a writer and he is my muse. We are not meant to be together, I am simply meant to admire him.”
– Amelia Jones
That evening, I lay, my windpipe the breadth of a drinking straw. My pulse was thumping in my ears, yet my eyelids, curiously, closing.
I watched, unmoving, the sky, as it changed from blue to yellow ochre, then to a streaked burnt sienna and scarlet, which quickly gave way to indigo.
I didn’t bother getting up to switch on a light; I merely watched.
I watched, unmoving, wondering, whether the uproar within had finally conquered. It left me not only unmoving, but also unmoved, by the silent revolution before me.