I Serve Two Muses.
One muse I have known since childhood when the prick of a harpsichord was struck and it's resonance danced on my ear drums. First she was small, cute, and unsure of where she belonged in my world. But then through the years, she changed. She took many forms and found her way from my ears, to my hands, to my voice and then into my heart. Now She lives there. Tugging at it, yearning for attention, reminding me that of what I can produce deep within my chest. She claims that it's my purpose, why I was put on earth. She believes in a higher power and see's it within me with every note.
But she too, is fickle.
She doesn't like to share me, but she also doesn't like to be pinned down to one thought, one beat, one incantation. She'll dance all night to every tune that comes on the jukebox. Every note speaks to her, and she hums those same songs to me on the drive home. She's the only one that can make me cry nowadays. She knows what to do and what to say to make me think of the days of yesterday. Regrets, hopes, fears linger in her whisper. She makes me happy to be so damn sad. I love her.
But as I said, I serve two muses.
The other muse is new. She's different, exciting. She like's what's inside but only because it's what manifests when raw, cold steel is gripped in my hands and on my back. She begs for my body and demands to see me broken time and time again. She gets off on it. She's the one that calls me to bed before the night life begins. She dotes on my thoughts of pulling through the drive through on the way back from rehearsal. She is disappointed when I sleep through the alarm in the morning, because she's already at her favorite place, warming up the bars and benches, waiting for me. She's there cheering my triumphs, staring into my eyes and screaming "you CAN." She stomps away, pissed when I drop the bar early. My failure is her failure. She'll walk away...but she always walks right back with more intensity than I could ever anticipate.
She want's me strong, she want's me lean. I'm a trophy, a pillar of physical and mental success to her. She makes me feel more like a man than I ever knew I could. I fuckin love her.
Do They Know?
The two muses, they know about each other. They pass each other in the hallway. As one creeps out of my room, the other slinks in. Each seeking to take my mind off of the woes of the other. I know they grow jealous of each other and feel the coldness of my hand when I push one away to embrace the other.
I often wonder if they talk to each other and express their woes about me. I wonder if I disappoint them. But they'd never tell. That's not what they do. They're their to inspire and draw out the best of me. They know what I have to give to the world and the part they play. They'll never be as happy as they make me because they only get half of me, where they always give me all of them.
The real shame isn't that these two must share me, it's what's left for the rest. Interested parties may never get a drop because my two muses are hungry, needy and jealous. They demand every ounce of me and because they're so god damn gorgeous, I can't help but give it to them. They feed my heart, my mind, my soul. They're better than sex, drugs, and pizza. How could anything else compete?
Until Next Time,
Lift Big, Sing Big, and Look Great Doing It
The Opera Bro