Journal: 11/17/07 (Muse)

I've discovered it, lucky me.  Figured out why my writing has flowed so easily lately, why I need only think of a certain someone to make poems fly from my mouth only seconds after they blossom in my mind.  He is my muse.  How can that be, though?  I don't love him as anything more than a friend.  Well, to be honest, I do.  But his friendship is more important to me, and my crushes tend to come and go with surprising speed.  I won't tell him how I feel.

 

But even when I am dating other people, when I'm crushing hard on someone, I still am never as consumed with ideas as I am now, when I can still imagine his voice in my hear.  Soft and husky, a temptation to any girl who is so lucky to hear it.  My muse, though?  I can't be right, but it looks as if I am.

 

Then again, I should think about this.  We are friends, yes.  But he has created more drama in my life than I have experianced for a long time.  And I write about drama.  It is the simple creation of drama, a backbone of the theater group, that allows me to throw out words with surprising clarity.

 

He is my muse.  Strange as that sounds, his words and music excite me.  I can't help but wonder what would happen if we edged farther than friendship, let hands and lips wander like they did one night a while ago.  But I won't allow such a thing to happen.  Friendships must stay so.  I will ignore the sayings that claim that a male and a female can never be friends without something more growing between them.

 

I shall stay strong in the face of his voice, hard as that is.  I just wish he knew...he's my muse.