This Essay is Part I of two part series on Artist-Muse Relationship. Read the Part II “The Muse Gone Corrupt” by clicking here.

All the tears that have placed themselves firmly on my cheek, whisper solemnly in my heart. “More than a Muse.” But only my tears have the courage to say this. Not me. Do tears lie? My heart smiles, ‘not mine.’

Maybe this is where an Artist’s heart goes wrong. For him the Muse is the beginning and the end of the world. And tragedy of a common man is that he in all his lifetime is unable to find a Muse. This is the tragedy of an Artist as well. He learns what love is through his muse. There is no other way. And the muse shivers in despair over the burden of what is means to be a Muse. The Muse is afraid of the responsibility that she ought to carry if her relationship with the artist prolongs. But the Artist knows this that the Muse is captured truly if and only if she remains true to her nature, without the gruesome burden of being a Muse.

A Muse is not merely someone who is there for the sake of the Art. The Artist knows this well. But afraid he always shall be, ‘How to convey this to the muse herself that she captures his world and whether the Art is there or not the she will always remain in shades of his heart.’

Like the life itself, there are muses who deceive. Is all Art created because of those a deception in itself? Perhaps. The Artist, if tries to figure out that answer, he will die. So, he learns to let go of that muse.

Like the life itself, there are muses who are true to their heart. And the Artist cries, not in grief, but in a nonperishable thirst, wondering what will be left of his Art if that Muse doesn’t share his world with him. Yet, he can’t let go of this Muse, in all his lifetime. Because if he does, his Art will cease to exist.

“How selfish of you?” the Muse may and must cry upon hearing that she is indeed the Muse, and the Artist needs her for his Art like the ocean needs the empty sea shells. A dilemma which an Artist carries in his heart forever. A guilt, an artist’s guilt – heaviest of all, using the Muse to make his heart bleed. If there is no blood shed, there is no Art. If there is no muse, there is no blood. This is the Artist’s guilt. A question always lurks in his shadows. Why he creates because of the muse? Why creating is necessary for him? Will his Art die if he doesn’t create? Will he die is there is no Muse to create Art? Will he die if he doesn’t create? What is vital for him to breathe – creating the Art or the Muse because of whom he creates? In all this guilt, I bleed tears. Because I have no answers. Only tears, which must remain hidden from the Muse.

“Is Muse greater than friendship?” I have been asked this only once. And I neither have the courage nor the will to seek answers to this query. I only have my tears which pat on my back whispering, we understand.

“Any expectations from me?” wonders the Muse. If I had, why would you be the Muse? Learning through the follies of this world the Artist knows that there can’t be any expectations kept. If kept, the Artist won’t be an Artist.

“Knowing the consequences, why do you want to go ahead?” Why should I not? Are you not worth it? Because if you question your own self-worth what shall remain of my Muse? What shall remain of my heart? There is no heart to be found in an Artist, if there is no one to give meaning to his life. But the Artist himself fails to understand what gives meaning to his life. The Muse or the Art? If there is Muse, there is Art. If Art, then the meaning? A guilt which pertains in the heart forever. Only tears to provide solemn comforts.

Respites, truly can never be found in an Artist’s heart. Why would he need respites if he has the sufferings lingering on? Are all these sufferings because of the Muse? Never but an Artist can’t say with conformity. If he could say, he won’t have to question day in and night out with his blank pages. Life, seems blank to him. The Muse fills in the colors. These colors, the Artist never chooses, the muse brings along on her own. And the Artist cherishes all these hues. Because these are the only hues in his life. So is Muse still a muse, no, perhaps never can a muse be simply a muse. She is the life around which another life revolves. The Muse gives a birth to another life. And anyone who gives life is placed above heaven. Anyone who makes the other life sustain, is placed above heaven. The Artist still is in guilt. What sustains his life? The Muse or the Art? Clueless, he remains until again comes the comforting hug of the tears which cry, ‘We are always there to confide in.’

If an artist is honest in his heart, he shall never seek for a Muse. It is the cosmos that interject his heart and present him he ultimate gift that can be heralded – the one person who can perhaps give him the meaning. The Muse. It’s simply nature that tells him to drown. And he drowns because the Artist is always true to his heart. Because if not for his heart, why would he wake up the next morning? There always ought to be a reason! The muse loves the life! the Artist loves the Muse! The artist and life don’t go hand in hand. The Muse and life go hand in hand. The Artist and the Muse go hand in hand. The Muse is the lost connection that brings the Artist to life. If not for the Muse, what of life? So, is the Muse still an object to create Art? No, perhaps never. The Muse is the life. So, is the Artist selfish in seeking life? So, is the Artist selfish in seeking life along with the Muse? Is the Artist selfish in seeking the Muse herself? The Artist, finally leaves it all up for the Muse to decide.

The Muse, if doesn’t allow the Artist to be one with her, can never see him in tears. The Artist is a coward, in all his innate nature. He is strong – that’s how the world perceives him to be. Only the Muse is aware of his vulnerability, yet he saves his tears for a moment better than the one at hand. If only the Muse and the Artist are one, the Muse will be able to witness the incredible shimmering of his tears, something that is reserved only for the Muse and the world shall always remain unaware of it. Is Artist still the selfish one in seeking the Muse?

Only the Muse, perhaps, knows how is the heart of the Artist. The Artist doesn’t ever allow anyone to interfere with his heart, simply because he knows how made up it is of glass, and how easy it is to shatter. Yet he confides with the Muse and tries to make her understand how easy it is to crackle that heart. And how brave the Artist is in allowing the Muse to crack it. Such bravery is rare to be found. But what of this bravery if the Muse if oblivious of it.

Is the Artist most vulnerable to his Muse? No. To his empty pages which once filled remain unseen by the Muse. But the concern, much more grave is why these pages fueled with blood remain unseen by the Muse. Because the Artist chooses it. He never would want the muse to be aware of these pages. The Artist crumbles, but why would he want the Muse to crumble as well. If the Muse crumbles, the Artist crumbles as well. If the Muse is uncertain of her beloved – the Artist, what is certain in the heart of the Artist? If the Artist’s heart is uncertain, then he surely is back to square one – leading a life into the oblivion.

The Artist, always is and always shall be protective of his Muse. Because she is his way into the world. If she collapses, the Artist collapses. He ensures that she remains the same – unaware and oblivious of the Artist’s heart – so as she is always in love with life with all her charms.

Who says the Muse doesn’t has to suffer? She suffers, sure, yes. But is that suffering in the equal capacity as that of the Artist? The Artist, with all his might, makes sure that he is the one suffering the most because he simply knows that he can endure the suffering all his life through his empty pages. The Muse cannot. The Muse can never have the luxury of these empty pages. The Artist’s tears bleed on these pages, but he has these pages. The Muse doesn’t.

Often due to his fearfulness of the suffering of the Muse, the Artist never shares his work that he curated through the Muse. The reason is simple – if the all might heart of the Artist is shattered while creating this Art, how can the Muse take it without breaking into tears? And why would the Artist want the Muse to be in tears. Because for every second the Muse is in tears, the Artist will die an eternity. And the Artist is afraid of dying, not for himself but for the Muse, who shall be there for her, if not him.

The task of seeking another Muse is herculean. It’s not a conscious choice of whom the Muse will be. There might be a case when there will never be another Muse and the Artist will wither off with just one unrequited Muse in his heart. This decision he makes with all his heart and if the Artist is true to his Art, he will make this decision whilst knowing the consequences that he will always lead a life in tatters, unfulfilled and still all the more worthwhile, and all this because of the Muse who once captured all his heart.

The Artist is also equally aware that Muse will never reciprocate the love in the capacity. But an Artist, who is riddled with his own tragedies, never seeks that. Even an iota of love will suffice for him. So simple, yet so complex, for he has never known in all his life what love is, what love means as he always had the luxury and discomfort of the empty blank pages. What comfort does the Muse has, the Artist always wonders in amazement? ‘I’m prone to suffering and I shall suffer for my Art and for my Muse’, the Artist is always aware of this. Yet he is afraid, ‘How shall my Muse be in all this suffering if she doesn’t have me?’ It’s a fear which may never come true, yet that is how an Artist survives because he is afraid of the regret and the guilt that may erupt in the heart of the Muse many eternities later. It takes a lot of pain to live with regrets, and the Artist is always unsure about how much pain can the Muse endure. The Artist shall always be content to know that eh Muse is never in pain, but how can he be sure of it? The Muse has a heart of her own, sometimes distant and sometimes different from that of her beloved – the Artist. None knows the value of that heart more than the Artist because as long as the heart of the Muse is cheerful, the Artist lives. What other reason the Artist has to live for? The Artist is never desperate to live. He is always desperate to see his Muse live. And more often due to the turns of fate, the Artist knows that the only genuine consolations he can derive is through his tears. And these tears shall and always will remind him of his Muse. A Muse, who simply isn’t the Muse anymore. She’s an epitome of life. The Artist seeks solace in simple things. The very opportunity that the nature provided him to know his Muse for a moment is more than enough for the Artist to lead his life, however disdainful his life be, but he shall always lead that life with all the pleasant memories in his hart and tears, with the memories of this very Muse who made him conscious of his own heart.

An Artist is always unsure of his heart. The Muse might break it. And still the Artist will flash the teary smile because the very face that his heart can be broken affirms the Artist that he has a heart after all, a heart of which he was oblivious before.

An Artist always knows that the Muse is not merely for his Art, she is the giver of his life. How can he let her go? Yet he knows that there is a wild and a very probable chance of the Muse letting him go. He still remains content. How can he not be content? The Artist experienced life, because of the Muse. He has no life without the Muse.

When thinking about his Muse the Artist never ponders about his Art. He ponders simply about his Muse. The Muse is and always shall be greater than his Art. He sees and lives life through his Muse.

Not much is left to be said now, a Muse is never simply a Muse. A Muse encompasses life. A Muse is the life. And the Artist has to make do of his life with or without the Muse like he always has done. An Artist knows since birth how to live with sorrow and thus, he shall always live yet there shall always remain a question in his heart – how is she doing? – how is my muse? – how is my beloved? – how is my life? – how is my heart?