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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Friday, Nov. 23, 2007 @ 7:50 am
It's a risk: being in love.
Risking my heart, risking an opportunity. Greener grass.
It took some time, but we're OK again. Further and further apart, until we're face-to-face in the kitchen. He's yelling at me. Telling me to open up, because he's the one who's going to help me. That he's not going to let it fall apart.
One part of me doubts his intentions. I doubt his desire to live life fully. I doubt his ability to inspire me. In the end, I still must create my own, beautiful world.
I jog at dawn, along the pebbled beach. Frost on the logs. Sun streaming through loose clouds. My breath thick ahead of me. I ride the bus through town, memorizing faces, studying eyes. I've noticed the smallest thing about you, the thing that makes you you, the thing that you think nobody would ever notice.
In class, I study boys in a very new way: in the eyes of a 'married' girl. Look. Look all you want. Love with you eyes. One by one, I love the boys. First, the ones with the long hair. Wild hair, scruffy chins. Such beautiful, smooth skin. Second, the ones with wiry arms. Small, tough muscles, skin drawn tight, around thin elbows. Their shoulders that jut up under their shirts. And then, I dumped them all for my two untouchable muses.
One muse I sit with. Study with. His large, soft eyes. He talks about his wedding, his fiance. I don't care, I just love to hear him talk. So smart.
The other muse I adored from afar, until I was assigned to survey with him. Then he noticed me. He had to have felt my chemicals, my love for him, because he looks for me now. He's young and religous, but he's so perfectly created, I cannot help myself.
And that is the risk. To know that, without a doubt, your muses are imaginary. That you cannot act, that you will never touch your muse, and that, perhaps, is what makes it so sweet.