Melancholy is a muse that makes great poets of the brokenhearted. Or, at least that is what the writer class would have you think. As a philosophy, it is one of irresponsibility at best- of blame shifting and self-victimising at worst. Woe, is I. A personal belief, that love (while very much an existing thing) is only brightest when fed. We cultivate affections like a gardener cultivates an orchard. And soon, as a writer is convinced he must write, must love, so too does that become a truth. Self deception- knowingly or unknowingly- is our greatest sin.
When I describe you as a drug, I mean it in a quite literal sense. This is no victim that is being drink spiked on the dance floor talking, Muse. I am an active participant in my psychosis. I WANT to be yours, to be dragged under by the deluge of emotion you inspire. You just being you, I am not overwhelmed. You just being you, you’re as human as I am. However, the catalyst of you, that which feeds my cranium with the sparks and electric impulse of creation, that which has me lost for breath and trembling at the addiction of conception- it is your effect on me that I crave, an effect which is at least half in part because I wish it to exist. How tortured a person must I be, to crave being tortured. Not tortured at all, in fact, which is why I need it most.
Muse, can’t you see that this tug of war cannot be satisfied? I pull you in to feed me with love, and push you away so that when you tear me open that love can pour out the wound, onto the page, and keep me doing that which is most important of all. So, hand in hand, I admit my two vocations- I am a lover, yes. But also, and most importantly, a writer. To resolve our struggle either way- let you go, or settle down- would be to kill one half of my twined soul.
By Danielle K. Day