Of Whores And Muses

God knows how much I miss writing.

The other day I was talking to a friend about how much I needed a muse, someone to drive words into my head and propel me to pick up a pen and put these words into writing. In that conversation, I realized that if I had a writing pre-requisite, it would be a person I could draw my inspiration from.

It is no secret. I started writing because I wanted to document the daily accounts of my admiration for The Boy back when I was only 12, awkward, naive and foolish. I grappled for words that could describe how his eyes piercingly looked into mine. Or how I seemed to have held my breath while walking with him from the campus gate to the jeepney stop. And especially that ineffable, explosive feeling when I saw him starting to like someone else. This inspiration I drew from him is the same one that I siphoned for every school paper article, essays for contests and projects and even for his own thesis. And by night, I documented each memory in my diary up until a decade later, when we, all grown-up and tainted with the uncertainties of this world, decided to part ways. For more than a decade, The Boy was my muse.

And now, this. A daily urge to write that cannot be quenched. I realized it was not The Boy that I longed for. It was the madness that I wanted so badly to translate into words.

As I went on talking to that friend, because once I start a topic I cannot simply go astray, he suggested someone. Prince Caspian. The one person who has totally made 2011 already an enchanting year. I tried but it was to no avail. I had no memory of how it felt while looking into his eyes. Piercing? Mesmerizing? Turning my knees into jelly? I wondered what his presence would be like. What his scent was. How his skin felt against mine. How it would feel to spend a day together and part ways in the wee hours of dawn. I picked up a pen and tried to doodle. I ended up writing my name in different fonts.

My friend laughed at what I said. He thinks I am silly. If I am, then how would he call my writer friend who has to cook before he writes? Or the one who listens to The Beatles as he scribbles along? Or, most especially, the one who needs to get laid before he finishes a piece? Lunatics, that would be an apt term for them. Us, I mean.

I won't last a day without writing. I would rot. And without love, I would also decay. I have to write about love to keep me alive.

And with this, my friend offered. "Use me."

I closed my eyes and thought of him. Me and him. Our friendship. Our wondrous, inexplicable, non-obligatory, organic and serendipitous friendship. To my surprise, things came crossing my mind. One after another. Not merely things but words. Sentences. Paragraphs. I smiled.

For months, I struggled with writing. I needed a push, a motivation, someone to call my muse. And now, here is someone I could use. A meantime inspiration. An understudy. A spare tire. No, I haven't found a muse. I call him a whore.

Hello writing.