Darwin Leon

To My Muse,

I have sat in this room for weeks, night after night at my desk, watching the cursor blink against a white screen. It has become your song. Correction. Let me be as precise and explicit as possible. It is your theme song. The rhythm as it clicks, on and off. What. To write. Where. Have. You. Gone? And on the theme of themes, you have theme pictures that are beginning to embed themselves in front of my eyes—faces in the walls surrounding my desk. The longer I stare, the more they sag. The tricks my eyes play on me when you’re gone for too long.

At first they were cracks in dry wall and stippled paint. Then they started to smile. They were angelic and encouraging. They were saying, “Ariana, it’s okay. You got this one. It’s just noise swirling between your ears. Listen to the static.” Then they began to sag and wine. They got impatient. They said, “tune into another station. This static is giving us a headache.”  Their eyeballs popped out of their sockets and their eardrums exploded. Faces were bleeding from the wall.

Now they’re screaming at me. “Write something! Stop thinking. Let go.” So I stood up and left the room. I drank four cups of coffee. Four! No one should drink that much coffee. And I smoked cigarettes—too many cigarettes. I quit a month ago and you made me start.  This one is your fault. I don’t even know how the pack got into my hand. My throat is raw. I read the first ten pages of three different books on my shelf. I cleaned my room. It’s 12:45am. I want to sleep, but the coffee, the nicotine, my head. The static. Pacing across my living room came shortly after the coffee and cigarettes, and I thought running would help, but it’s the middle of the night. No one’s awake. There aren’t street lights here. I can’t get my roommates out of bed and talk to them about it. I can’t call my mom. She’s about to get up for work. She’s living two hours ahead of me. Plus, they wouldn’t understand. Only you understand and you aren’t around. And I am writing you a letter, as if this will help me punch these keys in any type of succession that feels right or sounds good.

Please come back.

I am dying over here. I wouldn’t write to you if I didn’t need you, but these words in my head, the ones that need to come out, the ones that are static, they were never wholly mine. They are partly yours. You are their origin. You are the foundation. You are my muse, that’s how this relationship works.  You shed light onto the structure, you are the catalyst of potential. All I am is potential. I am only carrying these people, these voices, these words, and they are misplaced without you. You fill in the color on their faces, give them flesh, timber to their voice, intention. Without you I have no intent. You are the thing that makes me tick. And the clock is still ticking here, the cursor is blinking. Where. Have. You. Gone. I hope. You’re having. Fun.


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