Muse

A thing I am writing has lead to the question of what my muse looks like. In answering, I didn't even hesitate, which was interesting because I had never before considered it. I have complained about my muse, yes, as one does about a roommate who never washes the dishes and keeps setting things on fire, but never have I taken the time to actually look at her.

Regardless, she sprung from the aether fully formed and smiling slightly and now that I think on it, is isn't quite so surprising as one might think that she emerged abruptly and with no extended thought; it is not as though I haven't known her all these years gone by.

She has short, scraggly black hair and grey eyes with flecks of gold, her features are sharp rather than pretty, she is tiny and looks younger than she is, she wears a tight black shirt and a baggy black sweatshirt and jeans that are raggedy at the ends and stained with mysterious substances. She is barefooted and has too many knotted string friendship bracelets, she used to have a hat but she lost it in the subway one day, her everpresent bag is shapeless and paintstained and full of markers and scraps of paper.

She is not as much a whirlwind as one might expect. She ambles rather than dashes, stays in one place if she has reason to, talks slow and with a hint of an accent that I have yet to identify. She spends more time quiet than I'd like her to and has a habit of flashing into momentary rages.

Probably her hair wasn't always black. Probably it will change, and change again. 

She has very little use for people, save that they serve their functions and give her things to talk about. Give me a book and you're my friend for life, give her a book and she's liable to pore over it voraciously, then look at you expectantly, wanting more.

Nothing is ever bloody good enough for her, she doesn't understand why I can't do what she wants all the time, she gives me the silent treatment all day long only to chatter at the top of her lungs when I'm trying to sleep.

She does not get along with Sebastian.

She's a goddamn fickle bitch, as is the nature of muses everywhere, and I'd not turn her in for money or fame or friendship or anything, really, because her conversations are good ones and her stories, second to none.She hears voices in the wind and stories in a stranger. I don't think I'd still be me without that.

I don't know her name.