False intimacies

I used to believe people could smell it. That my perversion was this palpable thing, this tag. I was trying to understand masochism and as I wrote my process, people would read it and think they knew me. They could see inside me. I had confessed things to them, and now they understood me. My casual relationships were predicated on a series of assumptions.

1. I am my thinly disguised characters.
2. I am into some wild shit.
3. I am desperate for communion.

They’d try to muse me. I want to be part of what you’re doing. I want to be the source of these stories. The inspiration. There’s an entire genre of art devoted to the dangerous lives of artists. The bipolar and the suicidal and the violent. And then there’s a separate genre about stalkers. And rarely does anyone catch the creepy as shit relationship between the artist and her muse.

It’s the work of artists to deconstruct. And sometimes we get deconstruction confused with destruction. And that’s particularly likely when we’re living with a narcissist. And tell me, what’s more narcissistic than believing that you can inspire great art? The creator is a laborer, but you, you are the glorious muse.

This is work. Art. This is sweat and panic, obsession and practice. It’s hard and messy and it’s best when you don’t know that. When you don’t notice. If I do it well, you don’t know the difference between my work and me. If I stop seeing the difference, then I’m fucked. If I start believing my stories, I can’t tell them properly. I don’t believe in muses. I believe in stories. The materials are everywhere, but I can’t build when I know things, I only build by asking. This? What happens when I do this?

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