Muses

I sit in my armchair. I look into the eyes of my Muse and write. But I'm not writing what I usually do: a novel, a short story, a poem. No. This time, my writing isn't dictated by inspiration. I simply want to tell the story of my life, or rather, part of it. A part of my life closely linked to HIM. Perhaps this will be a warning to other writers? Or perhaps a kind of farewell letter? I don't know.

Let me start by saying that I've always loved putting my thoughts down on paper. I kept a diary even in kindergarten. I couldn't write yet, so I just drew individual events. However, in elementary school, I spread my literary wings. Stories and poems flowed from my pen almost effortlessly. Writing was my passion. What's more, it replaced family and friends. I distanced myself from everyone. I began to achieve my first successes in college (journalism). A magazine published my stories monthly.

I wanted to write a novel. I worked hard for many months, almost failing my studies. At times, I thought I was going crazy. A few times, I felt a literary void. Fortunately, I managed to find inspiration through classical music. Finally, I wrote. The publisher who published my novel didn't expect such success. I received an offer to write another novel. I was in seventh heaven. I had a wonderful idea, I knew exactly what I wanted to write and how.

One sunny day, I sat down at my desk and eagerly turned on my computer. I stared at the blank page on the computer screen and... I couldn't write a single sentence! It turned out that my first novel had completely drained me, drained me of all my literary energy, all my writing power. I sat for five hours trying to write the first sentence. I couldn't. Every attempt was pathetic, and the results of my efforts were increasingly worse. I tried to calm myself down. I told myself it was just a temporary weakness, that I needed some time. Two weeks later, I sat down at the computer again. Nothing. But I was prepared for this. I turned on classical music, which always brought me inspiration. But not this time... Even my favorite overture to "Die Fledermaus" didn't help. I listened to other types of music back then, hoping one of them would restore my writing powers. The only result was a terrible headache. Over the next few days, I tried just about everything: writing in a picturesque spot (a forest, a meadow), at various times of day and night. I took concentration pills, meditated. All to no avail.

I was at the end of my rope. I was practically about to give up, to think my literary talent had burned out like a log in a fireplace, when, while watching a TV program, an unconventional idea popped into my head. The program was about mythology, including the Greek Muses. "Muse!" I exclaimed. That was it. I simply had to find my Muse. Not in the form of music or landscape, but in person. I felt a great sense of relief and relaxation. A Muse is usually depicted in art as a beautiful woman. "But what good is a woman, even a beautiful one?" I felt that only a real man would be able to summon my inspiration. A flesh-and-blood Muse. I decided to place an ad in the newspaper. I had considerable difficulty formulating the content, but somehow I managed. After exactly two months of struggling with the first sentence of my second novel, my ad appeared: "I'm looking to hire a young, interesting man. I'm offering an apartment and a high salary." I replaced the adjective "attractive" with "interesting," and even then it sounded rather ambiguous.

Within a month, a multitude of candidates passed through my apartment. Unfortunately, none of them resembled the Muse of my dreams in the slightest. I thought my writing career was over. I was considering calling the publisher and terminating the contract when someone unexpectedly knocked on the door. I was surprised for two reasons. First, it was very late, after 11 p.m. Second, why didn't they ring the doorbell, but instead use their own hand? I went to answer the door. A young, very slim man in old clothes stood on the threshold. He had a long face and dark, shoulder-length hair. His melancholic gaze was fixed on the cloudy sky.

"Good morning. I'm from the ad," he explained, still looking up.

"Good evening. It's a bit late, but come in."

He entered, still staring at me. I watched him a little uncertainly. It crossed my mind that something was wrong with him.

"Will you hire me?" he asked, finally looking me in the eye.

"You don't know what the job is yet," I pointed out.

"I don't care. I desperately need the money. I'll agree to anything, from cleaning toilets to sex," he said casually.

This statement surprised me. I stared at him in stunned silence. There was nothing extraordinary about him, but he was clearly different from the previous candidates.

"I'll hire you for a trial period. Follow me."

I led him to my studio. The room was divided into two sections by a low screen (barely a meter high). On one side stood my desk and bookshelves. The other side of the room resembled a theater set. I'd hung a multitude of colorful scarves and paintings there. In the center stood a chair covered with a large expanse of green cloth. I pointed it out to him with a firm gesture.

"Should I pose for you?" He began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Get dressed immediately!" I shouted. "Why is he so eager to undress?" I was home alone with a strange man, in the middle of the night, so I felt justifiable fear.

"Calm down. Don't get nervous. If I don't have to undress, what will my job be?"

I looked at him uncertainly. "I think he'll burst out laughing when I answer him."

"You'll be my Muse. "

He frowned, and a hint of amusement flitted across his impassive face.

"What am I supposed to do?

" "I don't know," I stammered. "Sit comfortably and... I'll give you a certain text, which you'll recite."

I rummaged through my desk. While working on my first novel, I'd written a short rhyme—a spell—that helped me write. Now I handed him a small note.

"Not yet," I said. "Not until I let you know." I turned on the computer, launched a Word document, and took a moment to gather my thoughts. I leaned intently over the keyboard and said, "Now."

He began. He read slowly and carefully. His diction was perfect, like that of a professional actor. He recited:

"Come, sweet and fragrant,

Come, light and volatile,

Give me strength, enchanting,

Enter me, dizzying vein.

Come, wonderful, magnificent,

Come, my salvation,

Envelop me completely,

Drive away my suffering.

Magical inspiration enters me.

Let me write diligently, lightly, pleasantly, and confidently.

Ignite the creative flame within me, give me help,

Let the computer keys clatter day and night.

Let my mind, heart, and imagination work together

, Create intensely, working on a novel."

I tried to write. I listened to his voice, trying to summon up even a shred of creative energy. I couldn't.

"I'm finished," he announced.

"Not yet. Read on." "As long as I don't tell you to stop," I ordered frantically.

He read. I tried to write, but not a single letter emerged. Finally, in despair, I buried my face in my hands, ready to cry. I realized the man was still reciting, his voice hoarse.

"You can stop. It's not going to work. I'll pay you for this time, and we'll say goodbye... inspiration and I," I added in a whisper.

"So you won't hire me?" he asked disappointedly, approaching the screen.

"Unfortunately," tears streamed down my cheeks. Finding Muza was my last resort.

"Maybe we should try again? I really need this money. Please give me another chance," he insisted.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and looked at him. His eyes, which seemed still to me, glittered with emotion. Hope stirred in my heart.

"Okay, sir. Sit next to me."

He did as he was told. I pulled my chair as close as I could to his and looked into his face. "You seem so average, but that sensitive expression on his lips... and those eyes!" My Muse's eyes were blue-green-brown.

"You have extraordinary eyes," I whispered, intrigued. "I didn't think anyone could have such colorful irises."

He didn't say anything. But he didn't take his eyes off me, giving me the opportunity to continue contemplating this wondrous phenomenon. I watched, captivated. I unconsciously moved my face closer, so close that our noses touched. The stranger's eyes had a magnetic power. The colors in his irises slowly began to blend, swirl, churne, giving birth to pink, yellow, red, and other colors that human eyes couldn't possibly contain. I could only compare it to the animation that appears when listening to multimedia files. Gradually, the Muse's eyes began to draw me in, the colors vanishing into a deep blackness, and suddenly, like a flash, I saw a vivid description of the plot of the novel I was to write. I heard the dialogues of my characters, and a moment later, I saw letters forming words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters.

"You're brilliant!" I exclaimed. Euphoria and a wild inspiration like I'd never felt before swept over me. I tore my gaze from my savior's eyes and set to work. Work? It was a pleasure! And at the same time, a compulsion. I wrote uninterruptedly until morning, occasionally glancing into his eyes. My Muse sat patiently and silent. After a while, he began to show signs of fatigue, but still said nothing. Finally, at six in the morning, I too felt tired, but oh so happy! Literally fulfilled! I wrote three chapters.

"I'm hiring you!" I exclaimed, immediately handing him five hundred złoty.

From then on, Muse lived with me. I supported him and paid him a generous salary. Money was no problem for me. With the help of Calliope's (that's what I called Muse) phenomenal eyes, I wrote numerous bestsellers. Looking into his intriguing eyes, I could write anytime, on any topic, in any format.

Writing consumed me more and more. I stopped going outside for fresh air, and I forbade Muse from doing so, too. After all, I needed him in my studio! Sometimes we wouldn't leave for more than a dozen hours. Calliope didn't complain. He said he needed cash and could sacrifice himself for it. To this day, I don't know what he did with the money I gave him. He still wore the same clothes he'd worn on his first day, or a bathrobe (when his clothes were in the wash). As far as I know, he didn't buy himself any luxuries. Besides, I didn't think much of his money management. I was only interested in his eyes.

It was like a drug. I wanted more and more. I longed to feel that unearthly ecstasy of creation again, the delicious backache from hunching over the computer. And the amount of writing had to increase to achieve the original effect. I wrote and sent my pieces to various publishers. I didn't care about the rest. Except maybe for money, because I had to pay my Muse a salary. I didn't care about reviews or phone calls asking for interviews. Only two things mattered: Calliope's eyes and writing. Nothing else mattered to me.

After a year, I proposed marriage. Finally, since he was living with me and we spent almost every moment together, we could formalize our relationship. He asked how much I would pay him. I named the amount. A month later, we were husband and wife. At the registry office, we signed a contract. He was to be at my beck and call (I wanted to create almost constantly), and I was to pay him handsomely. The contract was for five years, with no possibility of early termination.

Our every day was identical. We barely left my studio. We slept and ate here (I hired a housekeeper; I didn't have time to cook myself). It got to the point where I had a toi-toi latrine placed in the corner of the room. To stay awake and create uninterrupted, I drank ten cups of coffee a day and also took stimulants. To avoid collapse from exhaustion, I set myself a sleep limit per week. At first, it was thirty-five hours, but gradually decreased to twenty. This automatically applied to Calliope as well.

The Muse was growing paler and thinner, and I noticed the livid bags under his eyes. His untrimmed hair, unshaven beard, and mustache turned him into some kind of terrifying, hairy creature. I ignored it; only the irises of his eyes mattered. I, too, was terribly neglected, but I didn't realize it at the time. I felt exhausted, but I couldn't stop writing. I had to look into his eyes and create, create, create... Experience an endless, endless state of inspired rapture.

This went on for two years. Until yesterday. It all happened because I decided to dismiss our hostess. The meals she served and the frightened expression on her face when she entered the studio were starting to irritate me. I informed the Muse of this.

"So what are we going to eat?" he asked. His voice was weak and alien. No wonder, we barely spoke. I looked at him. I wanted to reply, but only a soft croak escaped my parched throat.

"I've had enough. I'm leaving," he announced suddenly and walked to the door.

I blocked his path.

"And where are you going?" I managed to croak. "You don't have a family, you don't have a home. You told me yourself. I took you in! I hired you! I gave you a roof over your head! Our unbreakable contract is valid for three more years! You can't just back out! You signed up! You're my husband!"

He laughed, a ragged, mocking cackle, and looked at me sadly.

"I won't let you go!" I screamed, locking the door.

He thrashed. Finally, I was forced to tie him to a chair and gag him.

"My Muse," I said gently, "food is not a problem." If you care so much, I'll feed you. But you can't leave. I need you. Let's work now, okay? I haven't written in two hours.

I approached him, trying to look into his eyes. He squeezed them shut.

"Open, please. Dear Calliope, open your eyes!" When I didn't hear anything, I started screaming. I was in a creative "starvation." "Open your eyes, damn it! Now! I command you! Open your eyes, damn it!"

I shook his head in a wild frenzy of rage. I wanted to force his eyelids open, but he squeezed them so tightly it was useless.

"Open your eyes, or..." I scanned the room, searching for a tool with which to threaten him. I found an old, long-unused pen. I grabbed it and held it to his throat. I started to cry. "Don't make me do this... Do this for me and open your eyes. Can you feel the nib on your neck? I'll kill you if you don't listen to me." So what's it going to be like? Will you open it?

After a moment, he shook his head. I couldn't take it anymore. I plunged my pen into his neck with all my strength. It went almost straight through. Calliope convulsed. The chair he was tied to tipped over. I fell to my knees before him.

"I'm sorry, Muse... Forgive me," I began kissing his pale lips. I tasted blood. I jerked away from him. Blood flowed not only from his throat, but also from his mouth. From his sensitive lips...

Now I stared into his eyes, floating in a jar filled with formaldehyde. But they were no longer those eyes that gave me inspiration, the ones I... loved. I can't create with their dead, mindless expression. I can't write anymore. Without Calliope, I'm not a writer. I'm nothing. Only with him can I live, exist. I have no choice but to join my Muse.

I pull the pen from his throat and place the nib against my chest. Just one more small movement, and the blood from my heart will mix with the ink. Just one vigorous thrust...