Five years ago my muse was a man. Thin. Strong arms. Dark skin. Beautiful big lips. Kind heart. I would dream of him, wishing for him to hold me. Entranced by his eyes, kept securely by his mind.

Two years ago my muse was the streets. The buildings that diminished my stature. The noise of the traffic. The 4am commutes. The claustrophobia of the train. The smell of coffee that fueled my steps.

In January my muse was music. The pain in my neck from being hit by crowd surfers. The yell of the instruments. Being engulfed by the masses. I was one of many bodies being pulled together. Exhilarated by my lack of control.

Now my muses are my dreams. Vivid scenarios. Teasers of wishes that won’t come true. A showcase for fantastical worries. Remixed memories. The promise of restless sleep.


I dreamt I was in love with a man, only for him to be angry with me. I sat in the passenger seat, muted by fear as he yelled. Blinded by his rage, the car swerved off the freeway and into the water.

And maybe when I woke up I was still swimming. Trying to make sense of what happened and how I let it get that far.

But then I reminded myself. It’s only a dream. Why worry over things that were never real, and definitely didn’t happen?

It was only a dream. It didn’t happen, at least not like that. Please let me forget.

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