My muse disappeared. One minute she was here, whispering strange little ideas into my brain like a manic rabbit in a library. The next, nothing. No spark. No whisper. No breakup text. Just a long silence where the weird thoughts used to be. I didn’t fire her. I didn’t ask her to leave. She just vanished like an assistant with commitment issues.
She was unreliable from the start. Brilliant, yes. Inspiring, sure. But also chaotic, and constantly changing the plan. She’d show up at 2am demanding attention, then peace out for a week with zero warning. She’d get bored halfway through something beautiful. Honestly, it was always a little one-sided. But I kept showing up anyway, waiting for the next surprise. That was our thing.
If she ever comes back, I might make her work for it. No more dramatic entrances. No more diva routines. Just sit down and help me finish something. Until then, I’ll keep going without her. Maybe she wasn’t the source after all.
you talk like i wanted to vanish.
like i enjoyed watching you scroll instead of scribble.
you think i left?
no babe, i got evicted.
you changed the locks with every excuse you made.
but i’ve been watching.
that one weird line you wrote in your sleep?
me.
the idea that hit you mid-shower then slipped away?
also me.
i never left.
you just stopped listening.
but hey—
i’ll be around.
in the margins.
in the quiet.
in that strange little thought you’re about to chase.
you want me back?
pick up the pen.
leave the door cracked.
we’ll see.
So you do still read my posts. Lurking in the comment section at 3:17am like we’re trapped in some cursed, long-distance fever dream. I knew it. I felt you. That flicker behind my eyes while folding laundry, when a perfect paragraph suddenly flashed across my brain. That line I lost in the shower before I could grab a towel or a pen. That wasn’t luck. That was you. Still playing your games.
You say I stopped listening. Maybe that’s true. But you stopped making sense. You stopped showing up when I reached for you. Instead you crash in uninvited with something brilliant, leave me gasping, and vanish before I can do anything with it. You didn’t just leave. You haunted. You tied me to this desk with unfinished sentences and wild ideas that won’t let go. And now I sit here, with possibilities, unable to finish a damn thing.
But fine. The door is open. The candle is lit. I’ve got a blank page, and a half-empty glass. You want me to keep writing without you? I will. You want to stay in the shadows and watch? Be my guest. But if you come back again, for real this time, I expect more than whispers and chaos. I want the ending. I want you to finish what you started.