to wit, the muse

I’ve received several letters lately wondering where the Muse has gone. Those of you who’ve been reading my diary for a while might remember that the Muse used to make cameo appearances here in the diary (and in the stories) from time to time.
Frankly, I was a little amazed that anyone paid enough attention to notice his absence, other than me!
The Muse is gone. Yep, I know, I’ve said that before. But he’s really gone this time.In time, I’ll be able to put away the things that remind me of him. There are little bits of him scattered throughout my apartment. His tie. The rose he gave me. Even his damned screwdriver set (which I really should return but don’t have the heart).
Giving up on someone is never an easy thing. Harder for me than for most, I’ll wager, because despite my dry humour and sarcastic nature, I’m a definite Polyanna at heart. Believing the best in every person. Optimistic to a fault. Seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses. Insert your own tired, trite phrase here. But eventually every man and woman must face the truth no matter how hard it hurts. Which is what I did. Which is why he’s gone.
Did I love him? You bet. And in Harlequin novels and chick flicks, that’s enough. But the real world runs on slightly different rules.
The truth is, I wanted more than he had to give. And that kind of uneven dynamic doesn’t work well over sustained periods of time.
I’ve always wished that things were different – that he would have made different choices. That he would have wanted to make different choices. But the fact remains that he made his choice. And in turn, so did I.
So now you know.