the aftermath of Pygmalion

she is composed of many pieces

she has been angel's wings, and the figure of a goddess, and words written to long lost lovers

she has been a cry for help, a dying breath, a symphony

she has been so many different things that she can no longer tell who or what she is

 

 

she was never a person, not really.

perhaps there was a point when she possessed enough facets of individuality to potentially be considered a "thing"

but it has been a very long time since she held a corporeal form for longer than a few years (which, to an immortal idea, are seconds)

 

The Nine Muses were Greek goddesses who ruled over the arts and sciences and offered inspiration in those subjects.

 

she does not like being referred to in the past tense

though she has been virtually forgotten, and cognitively recognized by only select crowds (professors, students, history enthusiasts) she is still here

and always will be

she is not sure where her sisters are

it has been a long time since they were together

concepts no longer flow together like they used to; one is branded either a "creative" or "intellectual" and there is no crossover - no contact with her sisters 

she is very lonely, and is constantly lost

she wanders among the forest of minds of men, providing inspiration for their craft 

she doesn't know why she still does this, why she still finds her way into dreams and nightmares and ink stained hands - it's a compulsion now

(you can't control the muse; she can't even control herself)

she has been many statues, including one so beautiful that her human creator fell in love with her

and she felt sorry for him when she left, but she had done her job - he had created the artwork, he no longer needed a muse

she has been paintings, of queens and battlefields, of wine soaked lovers captured in rough brush strokes

she has been words, so many words

 

she has seen so much

she has seen people who were absolutely insane, and she was the only thing they knew how to use for help

she has seen the sky from every location possible in the world, and from a few other places too

she has been present in so many private interactions - emotional, physical, sexual - because she will be needed during the aftermath

she has been in journals inside backpacks, in sets of paint brushes, in hands tinted grey with clay 

a museum could be created just to hold her stories,of her wonderful and terrible and never-ending existence

and in a way, she still is all of those things

a little piece of her stays with each artwork she helps to inspire

it is like she leaves behind a Polaroid taken of her identity and meaning in the moment in which this work was done

because though she is no longer needed

she despairs at the thought of being forgotten