We’ve heard stories about artists falling in love with their muses, they find such an inspiration in them, they get full of madness, of craziness, of admiration, so they end up falling in love with them.


Well, this is not my case.


I was a 22 years old dreamer, in New York, trying to find recognition, doing what I love. I was trying to have a chance at acting, modelling, singing, dancing or whatever it came to me. I’ve always considered myself crazy; I’m childish, I love to act like a baby, like a princess, but the only type of crazy I’ve never been is crazy in love and I was not planning to be. Not because I didn’t have the chance, just because I was not made for relationships.


One day, I got a shot as a dancer/performer in a small play. I got to meet everyone; the actors, the dancers, the director, the crew. As I had no experience I had to rely on the director as I’ve never relied on anyone. I was trying to learn new performing/acting techniques, learning to be the character; what the character thinks, feels, acts, moves… He was pleased to help me, so I met him almost everyday, late at night, at his place.


Between the lessons, we got to know each other, I knew him probably better than his sister, and he knew things about me that I do not even knew about myself before I met him.


He was an artist in every single way. The way he thinks and talks, like some kind of philosopher. The way he dresses as if he doesn’t care about anything. And with that kind of “staying home on weekends to think about the eternal return Nietzsche writes about” way of thinking.

He thought me not to only know the character better, but to understand and get to know my real self. Probably that’s why I began to fall for him, I felt like he wouldn’t judge me, since he discovered me, he made me who I was, he accepted me as I am.


He told me I was his muse, I inspired him in writing, in creating, in making art. Men have told me I’m beautiful before, but… not like that. Probably that’s what I was looking for, feeling like I was everything to someone, that I was good enough, that I inspire them.


Maybe it was the passion he put in everything he did, the sparkle in his eyes while talking about something that keeps him from sleeping.


But, I am crazy.


Not only in an immature way, not because I’m childish, or because I love to feel like a princess.




I may be madly in love one day, and by the next one… I’d be gone, not only from someone’s life, but from everyone’s.


I’ve always had this obsession with death that scares me sometimes.


I was never sure he loved me back, I could say it for the way he looked at me, but he never actually said it. Probably it was all in my mind, I wanted him just as a child wants a lollypop.


So I decided to free him, from all of my bad, from my temper, from those Sunday evenings when I couldn’t stand my life anymore, from my heartbreak, from my news, from the contradiction that I represent. I freed him from my calls that taste as self-pity, from my entanglements, from my loose, long, uncombed hair. I freed him from my conscience, from my fall, my arrival and my inevitable escape. I let him free in order for him to let me free too.


I was crazy.


And now, he may see me from below and love me, if he ever did, less.



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