"A muse is not any without a muse."
✓ Nivara
Words are fickle. Sometimes, they're around, and other times, they are not. Words are puzzles. They look easy at first, until you begin to piece them together.
Seated behind my writing desk, I tore away another page of my book. Words were a pain in the bum.
After a futile attempt to put together something meaningful, I crumpled the piece of paper, and was about to throw it wherever I had been throwing the rest of it when I finally noticed the countless crumpled papers laying on every corner of my room.
I groaned, and dropped my head on the table, banging it a couple of times, softly on the desk. "What a mess." I kept muttering.
Bzzzzzzz!
My phone suddenly vibrated, sending quick tremors through the desk. I raised my head lazily to see the caller. It was Charles. My manager, and only probably-friend.
I was an outcast. I didn't fit in. And, I never fought too.
Another groan. I stared blankly at the screen, watching as the caller ID danced with two contrasting options waiting for me to make a decision— an action I dreaded.
The vibration from the phone felt like a swarm of bees trapped in a jar, relentless and each buzz a sharp reminder of what was waiting for me and what may not be, if I kept refusing the call.
"What's up?" I finally made a decision.
"Where on earth did you keep your phone, Nivara?!" A deep loud voice cut through the phone, luckily, It was not near my ear. I evaded the storm before it got close, "Niv?"
"I'm listening, Charles." I said between my teeth, pressed the speaker button, and started rummaging through my wardrobe. I wasn't listening, until. . .
". . . The books' been sold out, Niv!"
My hands paused on a black gown, unsure how to react. Wasn't I supposed to be happy? Why then do I feel empty and numb?
I had made a decision to put my poems out there for the world to see. With no expectations. It was going to be a failure, anyway, that was what I had thought.
Never, for once did I see this result coming. It felt strange, and I couldn't shake off the imposter syndrome enveloping me, threatening to overshadow what was left of my esteem.
"Are you there, Nivara?! Have you ever been listening?!"
"Great."
"What? That's it?" He sighed, "Have you been consistent with your meds? You still have lots of things to achieve, you know? You can't while away your life—"
"Oh, Charles." There we go, "Don't even go there. I'm not going down that road with you today." My hand tightened a bit on the gown I was holding, while I dragged myself to the mirror to do a check of the dress. It's perfect. Maybe.
"You can't keep hiding the fact that something's wrong with you, Nivara."
"Argh. See ya!"
Beep. I hung up.
___________
The bar was buzzing as usual. Yes, that's my relief mechanism. At least, life's there. You just need to find a bit of life, when you lack it, right?
I gulped down my last shot, and joined the crowd. Although, the music being played was a huge difference to what I loved, somehow I found myself liking it. Perhaps, I needed a distraction. A mind filler. Then, I began to move my body—
— And, I lost myself in the rhythm.
Lost within the lyrics of the song, 'Just an imperfect being feigning perfect', it seemed as though I was the only person standing on the podium, and there was no more worry in the world. Just music and dance.
However, the trance was broken short when my ears caught a shattering sound, and surprisingly, I stopped dancing for a short while.
He looked distressed. Like a sad poem. The person who caused the sound. He had apparently dropped a glass after dwelling too much on something. How much has the world dealt with him?
I threw him a smile. Empathy is also a form of sympathy.
However, after returning to dancing, I realized that I had lost concentration, and now had him slowly creeping into my mind, distracting me.
I turned to look at him again, but he was no longer there. My eyes began to search frantically for him, surprising myself.
Well, I caught myself, but curiosity still took the best part of me. I ran to check on him outside. And, there he was.
But, something was wrong with him. He looked like he was losing his breath. I ran back into the bar and got him a bottle of water.
"Need some water?" I asked.
The next thing he said caught me off guard. Why was he questioning my identity?
I was about to speak again, when he landed another surprise on me. "Are you a goddess?"
He seemed disoriented, and I decided to make him feel at ease, which was even strange to me. I never liked talking to strangers, nor do I enjoy being nice to people whom I have no idea where they hailed.
I attested to his question jokingly, and told him my hands were aching. I'd been holding them out for too long. He took the water from me and my eyes caught Charles. The young man began to talk and somehow I knew where he was heading. I wasn't ready.
Before he could begin, I grabbed Charles' attention, ran past the man, and into the arms of my manager, who stiffened like I had just poured ice on him.
"Just stay that way, if not, I will kill you!" I whispered against his chest, and stayed there for a while. After a few minutes I left Charles' embrace.
"What was that for?" Charles questioned.
"Nothing you should bother yourself with." I said curtly, and slowly turned back to see if he was still there. I hoped he was. He wasn't. And, I sighed. Was that selfishness?
A small part of my heart, regardless, began to ache like the throbbing pain you feel when you have just lost something close to your heart.