Something I wrote a few days ago that I wasn’t going to publish, but I looked at it today and edited it into a shape that wasn’t ‘amorphous blob of thought’. Consider it a musing on talented people and identity and how terribly haunted everyone is by their own pasts.
Sometimes I occupy beds that ghosts visit.
There was a strong and pathetic need in me up until a few years ago to become someone’s muse. Whether you think of yourself as a feminist woman or not, sometimes it’s hard to get away from the fact that your role has already been predestined, written in curling, delicate hand about Lord Byron, chiseled into stone somewhere, Edie Sedgwick and her ilk lie in ecstasy in the background of some dark, violent party of the mind, the reason the men are there, but the muses are not the centre of conversation, and yes, they are the glamorous, seductive type you are drawn to. You can’t stop thinking of yourself as the romantic figure, floating in and out of heroes’ lives, a Jane Eyre or another long-suffering woman who is foregrounded in your head but just lives to lend all the ideas you have about the world to another, because they seem to have a firmer hand, a choking grasp on life you do not, because you’ve seen it happen before, and it will happen again. There’s no song lyric ‘men are doing it for themselves’, well, because, nothing so obvious is ever written down and paid attention to. A blackened part of me under