Tuesday, March 8, 2016


A very short story, inspired by a writing prompt.


I was convinced she was the antithesis of my muse. In all my artistic forms. Written or sketched. There I would be, sharp and focused. Creating. Then she would come and undo me. Making me second guess myself. Were we not supposed to be one? Why did she seem to stand against everything I represented? Didn’t she see how hard I worked? How meticulously I made each line; wrote each word?

I gave myself to my work. Giving all that I was.  Only later did I see how much of herself she gave as well. I wore her down. The harder I pressed on the more she had to absorb. Did I not see how gentle, how softly she came to correct and inspire. So often it seemed we were going in opposite directions.

Time carved us down. As all things. The river to canyon. The bone to dust.

Then, in an ordinary moment. I paused. Examined. I had been so distracted, caught up in myself, I did not realize how close we had become. It had happened so slow and subtle. I began to see how connected we were. Where I had come to only see two opposites, I began to see balance. Compliment. A beauty that had escaped me for so long.

Here, near the end. We are closer than we have ever been. We are less than we were yet more than we have ever been.

In quiet reflection I see that her changes, critiques, were not those of my antagonist. No, instead they were the gracious hands guiding me to better forms. More pure and precise expression. She saw in me what I could not see in myself. The pages. The canvas’. A testament of love. I cannot take back the times of resentment and doubt, but I can fill what we have left with humility and gratitude. Anything I created is accredited as much to her as it is myself. More so perhaps.