keys open doors

Dear K-

I always wanted to be someone’s muse. I wanted to inspire poetry, music, films, paintings, novels. Sometimes I like to imagine my life set in high contrast black and white, with a soundtrack that hovers deep and ominous in tempo with my stride down the sidewalk. Something like what David Lynch would make. Cut shots of traffic lights drifting silently in the night, me sprawled on a couch reading a novel with my feet tucked up under me, a dog barking in a neighbor’s yard, the flickering neon of a lonely liquor store front. O-P-E-N. A half-empty glass of amber liquid sits beside me sweating onto the coffee table, the liquid swirling and wavering as it is slowly diluted by the ice melting inside it.

But I’m not really remarkable enough to inspire. Even if I did serve to model for various works, I would probably be uncomfortable or unsatisfied, although potentially flattered. It would probably be more enjoyable to have the subject be vague, but to know that somewhere in the text my shadow touched it all and brought it to life. But I cannot say because I do not know what it feels like.

I’ve been swimming again. There have been a string of bad days lately, and I found myself wanting to do nothing more than put my head underwater and pour out all my thoughts while I steadily completed lap after lap. The sunlight makes dancing, scintillating patterns along the tiled pool floor and I like to watch them shimmer as I gently glide through their rays. It’s calming to spend an hour moving rhythmically and hearing nothing but the inward and outward passing of your breathing, and the swoosh of bubbles with every motion and exhale.

The days are growing longer and I am growing restless.

Longing for a change,
-K