an old muse

 “The colours seem a little more faded, and the stars a little less bright, without you in my life.”

They stopped reading at the first sentence, crumpling up the letter they had found on the otherwise empty desk and throwing it into the overflowing waste bin. They did not want to dwell on the past, and yet…they were standing here, in a room they had not stepped foot in for years. Everything was just as it was when they last left it, and it seemed that nothing had changed, a piece of their history left untouched by the rapidly changing world beyond the walls of the room. “What a lifetime ago,” they whispered to themself, as the wooden floorboards creaked beneath their feet. And it was certainly a lifetime ago. The door was sealed shut long ago, and it took a day’s worth of work to pry it open. And once it was open, they could not decide if they wanted to step into the past and reminisce of times where life was not nearly as complicated, or if they wanted to seal it once again, leave the room forgotten and untouched. Yet curiosity and temptation struck them, and a small part of them hoped that if they stepped in one more time, they could bring their love back. The studio was like a museum, paintings half-finished on walls and easels, thumbnails and sketches pinned up to the walls, most of the same model. The walls were white, but the sketches made up for it. They craned their head up to see that the ceiling still had the mural, a map of stars and constellations. A covered platform with a wooden stool stood in the centre of the room, in front of a large window and surrounded by easels and tables. Outside, spring was beginning to blossom, but the studio itself felt cold and eerily lifeless. Brushes, pencils, crayons, pens and wells of ink, all covered in a thick layer of dust as if frozen in time. Jars of water, murky and dark, and light, hazy and almost dreamlike. Tarps covered some canvases and shelving units, which they tore off. Under some, they found overdeveloped photos now completely ruined after being forgotten for years and years, and under others, they found broken and shattered sculptures. The tarps did not remain off for very long. This continued, but they did not know what they were looking for. They didn’t know if they were looking for anything at all. Nothing changed when they entered the room. The waste bin remained full of half-finished letters. Papers and scraps remained on the workbenches and tables. The magic and joy of seeing something created a brought to life was missing. Everything was exactly like and so utterly different from when they left. And they realized that it was because the colours seemed a little more faded, the stars a little less bright. Memory has a tricky habit of colouring things in, filling the blanks. It can make things far darker or much happier than they were before. They had fond memories of this studio, and the long nights spent here, but now, they could not tell whether those nights were brighter than they seemed, or if the past really was just fading away with age. Out of the corner of their eye, they saw a photo frame, turned face down on one of the cluttered desks. They turned the frame over and gasped. It was the two of them, standing at the water’s edge, the pair young and lovestruck. The first painting their lover had done of the two of them, just a little watercolour painting no larger than a postcard. But the fact that after all of these years, they had kept it. “You held onto this, all of these years?” Now sobbing, they fell on their knees, clutching the photograph. “I do not regret leaving you; it wouldn’t have been fair for you to have someone like me, who didn’t love you in the way you did I, but, oh stars-“ They sniffled, tilting their head back up to the starry ceiling. “Oh, if you can hear me, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to die with a shattered heart and I’m sorry you lost your muse and I’m sorry the colours of the world faded away when I left and I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-“ And for some time, the world was still. They breathed shakily and stared at the open door as if expecting the artist to return to life and reappear to comfort and forgive. But they were dead and buried, and of course, didn’t come. Inhaling shakily and rising slowly, they got to their feet. The waste bin was full of yellowed papers, but the muse searched the tops for the letter they had thrown away. Quietly pocketing it, they left the studio and shut the door. At the entrance to the empty house, the proprietor who had graciously allowed the muse to enter the house before it was to be torn down noted the muses red eyes and withdrawn look. “Everything alright, Mx.?” They turned and tearfully, knowing that no words could express the convoluted whirlwind of feelings they felt inside. So they simply said, “Yes” and walked to their spouse, who stood waiting with open arms to take them home. [If this didn’t make sense, basically this takes place many years after the artist and their muse broke up. The artist spent many nights trying to find the words to tell their muse how much they loved them, but never could. The artist sealed up their studio and lived alone, never picking up art again nor showing their work in exhibitions, basically becoming a recluse. The muse got married to another person they fell in love with. Years later in their old age, the artist died. The muse heard about their past lover’s death and came back to pay their respects at the old house/studio before it was to be torn down. And that’s where the story takes place.] [[People come and go, and life goes on. Treasure the memories you have with those you care about and know that you can make something beautiful; you just have to be willing to take the first step and start bringing it to life.]]