Do you ever look back at your old work and go...Oh, WOW did I think I was better than I was.

I've been having those moments here recently. I'm going to be perfectly honest, it bothers me....more than it should, I think.

I've been missing my muse for the better part of the last 3 years. I think it had to do with starting school back, going through the level of personal stress that falling in love with 2 different people can bring (with the feelings returned by both parties), the forgiveness that comes from making a mistake in that situation, and working more hours than I need to be while in school full time, as well as spending way more of my free time playing video games than I'm comfortable admitting to.  

In short, even if my muse had found me, she wouldn't have recognized me, because I simply wasn't the same artist she left.  I'd have to say, I'm not that same artist now.


But I think I am a healthier, more complete man than the one she left. I honestly have to say, that may be the reason she doesn't recognize me. And I know why.


So much of my old art centered around couples, romance, things like that. I had been in relationships, sure. I had never been in love before. Truly been in love.

Talk about a paradigm shift in the way your view romance.


Work I'd done before didn't seem to have the required fire, the passion, the feel, that fucking amazing SPARK that lights up in her eyes when she sees you, because you know she's been waiting all this time to. The absurd smile on your face that she sees, because you feel the exact same way. That fire, the flame, that winding twisting ether in a bottle that comes from the emotions two people can share, the electricity a true lovers touch can bring. The way time can stop when you look at each other in your moment together, your faces saying more than could ever be spoken. The peace and total contentment, impossible serenity, that comes while she lies sleeping on your arm, whispering your name in her sleep.

The shards of ice, that piercing black void that comes when your heart is broken, and despite all logic saying otherwise, you have no where else left to go but down, trudging through the frozen nothing. The despair from everything you've ever known being wrong, your carefully placed pieces of armor shattering like glass against your heart's onslaught. Your rage, billowing flame and roaring volcanoes spewing hate and hurt at betrayal and deceptiveness. The self-loathing and guilt from  knowing that not only were did you have a hand in causing this, you also did the exact same thing to someone else, and you can't wash that filth off of you, green slime sticking to your body, black gunk consuming your heart.

The choir of angels that sing in your ears, words of forgiveness soaring, Mozart and Beethoven seemingly hacks in comparison. The clarity, opening your eyes for the first time when you see the impossible foolishness of your actions, your movements and words playing out in a parable before your own eyes.

The final return to where you began, not realizing you didn't see the forest for the trees, your home shining like molten gold, blazing in the sun, with her waiting at the door, telling you it's okay, and you can finally come home.


My muse couldn't find me, because she was looking for the wrong man. The solitary man she was looking for is no longer solitary.

She's not on this site, and will never read this.

I love you.

Thank you for helping me find my way home.