To some, I am a man of charisma; the kind that stifles fear and electrifies the will.
To others, I am the biggest loser; the man with a balding sense of humour.
To the art of words, I am her brave Mister; the fool that tried to tame her and failed.
I do not claim that Poetry loves me in the same manner, but tis the love Shakespeare proclaimed.
A love affair with the sublime that only ends in one way: when the writer stops writing.
I was three when I first met my muse — my Juliette of poetry?
Sparks flew when she spoke in metaphors and I in broken vows and sentences.
I made a mockery of myself; what with the diaper and the lack of sophistication?
So I strengthened my acquisition with the world; I learnt the language of Men and Bots.
I went to pre-school.
I learnt to colour in between the lines to impress her. I was fervently in love with my muse, but I could not express her. I fell sick; my muse ignored me still.
From an early age to adolescent, I buried myself in television. I let the ambient box sing me to sleep. I let it erase my talents. I dragged through life and death — then back through life. I did things I would never trade my breath for — like learning to dance with both feet. The magic was missing. There was no thrill, no spunk.
If admitting that I cried means I’ll be stripped of my right to be a man, then set me free. I was revitalised of an energy I once knew; I was alive again. And I felt my muse blink.
Ever collapse to the sensation of being home after a long trip?
I felt the same; I felt the rush of belonging to something bigger than self — of belonging to Juliette.
I read more and she spoke a little louder. We dined over Jane Austen’s passages, laughed like children in Chuck Lorre’s ‘Vanity Cards’ and survived horrors in Stephen King’s ‘Nightmares and Dreamscapes’.
The more I marched over the terrains of literature, the closer I came to my muse.