Modern Day Muses — Why We Matter As Much As Our Artists.
People that appreciate and inspire art are just as important as those that create it.
We are all muses in some way, and because I am an empath, I can easily relate to music and people’s words and art even if I don’t feel the same way of my own volition.
Upon experiencing the energy their art releases, however, I can take on the emotions of what they’ve created and embody their vision.
That’s art to me. A most modern day muse, I can become everybody’s message.
They can tell their stories through the blue in my eyes that’s most visible through tears; they can draw pictures on my shoulder blades depicting the battle they fight with their bathroom mirror most mornings, the one they’ve fought with their mother or father since childhood, the one they’ve endured with the world on every suffocating hot afternoon and each bitterly cold night.
They can write their words of sorrow and joy and growth on the inside of my skull, their hands shaking with each stroke and bleeding ink confession; they can sing their songs into my ears, the soundwaves reverberating through the canals and leaving burn marks on the auricles; they can paint my stomach with the blues and reds of their angry post-adolescent fevers because that’s where I will hold it for them when they can’t clasp it inside any longer.
They may construct a building so tall that I will spend years navigating the secret passages of the childhood they have lain there beneath the concrete floors and hollow walls; they can and will lay their pain and happiness in a pile at my feet, and I will allow myself to absorb it even if only to share it amongst the others in the room.
Let everyone else see these feelings on my body, let them touch every inch of me and swallow me whole only to release me from their chokehold before they feel too much.
Let everyone become an artist so consumed with their catharsis that they seek a listener, an embodiment, a hope that somebody out there needs to feel it, be apprehended by the blatant and dangerous honesty that is their hemorrhaged soul.
To swallow the acrid pill of destitution, of longing, of inexplicable bliss, of emotions that don’t have names but involve receiving your first kiss or a soldier at your door with your child’s fate.
Of sunsets that bear a naked truth that everything beautiful must end sometime. Of returning a house key to a former lover.
I am not alone in this role. My sisters and brothers glide through the bedrooms of their beloved artists and sing their siren songs of illumination, sighing exaltations and ideas, crushing mental blocks in a single breath. Lifting the hands of the creators, guiding them to their canvases.
These twenty-first century muses are imperative to the spread and experience of artistic expression. To share, to commune, to exist with the collective consciousness of this life.
This is no acquiescence. I am no tacit receiver of the deepest secrets people have to divulge to me. I breathe in the arcane anecdotes these artists summon from the space between their bones and skin, that swim with the blood in their veins, that thrust themselves from their heart valves.
I celebrate it. I exist in this plane to accelerate it, never to suppress it.
May you gaze into my saltwater-touched eyes and hear the laughter of somebody’s favorite summer day or feel the shattered emptiness of their very first heartbreak.
Most importantly, may you create your own treasured narratives and photographs and send them into the air like the torn-up pieces of your first love letter, and may the wind guide them back to the muses where they return home.
*****
Jessica Lynn is a late twenty-something lunar child that never left the 90’s. In her free time she enjoys watching sci-fi, listening to music, dancing to the beat of her own drum, eating vegan food, and reading as many books as she can get her hands on. She is actively seeking rebirth through her art and her artists, endlessly seeking enlightenment in her everyday.
{You Can’t Spell Earth Without art}
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