I am a user. I absorb somebody else’s emotions and write about it. I am apart from them, and yet I try to feel the emotions as my own, embrace them, cry over them, and translate them into words.
I write poetry. They are mostly my observations of others. They are not my own stories. And I need emotions before I can write one. I have lived a sheltered life, familiar with all possible human relationships only in an intellectual level.
I need a muse. I get fascinated with somebody else’s sad stories. I get sad myself trying to live them out in my mind. But this is my cue. Sadness. I write everyday. I write without sleeping. I write from the emotions that they have provided me with. Unknowingly.
I am complicated. That person who has become my muse confuses me too. Sometimes, I feel like I am in love with him. Sometimes, I feel pity for him. Sometimes, I am appalled with what he does. But most times, I emerge clear with my own emotions.
I have used him for my own art. But I have given him back something special. I wrote his stories in poems. I gave him words. I gave him something that was mine.
CG
My Cattywampus Existence 