He stares at the blank canvas in front of him with something akin to desperation.
There was a time when painting was as easy as breathing. When all the colors makes sense and every stroke of brush breathe life into his painting. When he immortalize his love and joy through his art works.
A time when his studio was graced by the presence of his muse.
A time when he had his sole muse, his beautiful lover by his side, and the studio was filled with their laughter.
But now all he sees is the pristine white of his canvas, mocking his inability to conjure anything. The brightness of the blank canvas a stark contrast to his own darkened life and convoluted mind.
Finally, with utter resignation, he reaches for his phone and dial a number that once was so familiar, but now feels so strange. He knows he’s making a mistake, but he needs it. He crave for the bittersweet taste that only his muse could offer.
“Hey, it’s me,” he gulps. “I know I said I’d never call again, but I….need you. Can we please meet?”
“Sure,” he can taste the dryness and desolation in his own voice. “Your wife doesn’t need to know.”
Afterall, he had long since succumbed to the undisputed fact that his muse would be the source of his downfall.
À la mort,
Prompt: John Legend’s All of Me
“You’re my downfall, you’re my muse. My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues.”