It is 8 am on a Sunday, and I barely slept. My night was restless, My hands were shaking and this would be a vulnerable one. The restless night had left me scrolling through my phone. Amidst the countless videos, I stumbled on a quote. 

“Born as an artist, always desiring to be the muse”.

So now it's five months ago over again.

Five months ago, someone said words that refused to leave me. Words I have heard before, except this time, it didn't feel warm. It felt heavy, almost painful to hear and by the end of the day, I was stuck repeating it inwardly, waiting for it to feel good. I've found myself dragging it along every day since then. 

They said, “You are one of those people, that come into people's lives and make it better. You help them see and feel things in a way they never have before”. 

It's been five whole months and I've let this statement interpret so many versions of the feelings it made me feel. I felt a form of familiarity with the statement, it wasn't the first time as I said. It probably won't be the last. But this one instance filled me with so much dread. It wasn't exactly at anybody, not the people who have told me this or the person telling me now. I was filled with self-dreadfulness of having never experienced one singular person who made me feel this way. Someone that made me feel things differently or made me see things differently. For once, I craved the need to receive rather than to give.  

Naturally, my head was filled with “why” questions. So lately I have been travelling back in time, searching for times when these words had felt like warm tea in the morning. I think of when time started to matter to me- when my head was not clouded by childlike wonders and strings that weren't strained, so I took a walk. A very long one.

The sky reveals three stars as I look up. I am 30 minutes in and my phone registers 3000 steps for the day. I'm listening to Doomsday by Lizzy Alpine and passing my childhood home. 

This is the most 'white girl' song I can listen to to enunciate this melodrama

I remember we moved into this house when I was about 10. The vegetable plants my mother took pride in nurturing were not there anymore. The mango tree I had my first big fall stood barren. Yet the towering whistle trees remain. At the front path on the right, there's a generator house made with aluminium. Ours used to be at the back of the house with the dog house. The house was still covered in pink and white, except it was seemingly a darker shade than ours. 

With Doomsday blasting in my ears, I feel like I am in a movie, and I can see my brother and me running around as Marvis chases us up the mango tree. We sit on the branch, watching her bark, her tail wagging in excitement. Imagine that one scene after every superhero movie where a family is playing in the backyard with their dog or catching lunch together, smiling so wide that you would think they didn't just go through a traumatic event. Like they didn't just lose their home, neighbours, and their favourite mugs?

Cue the level of destruction in every Avengers movie.

Yes, that one. 

My movie is cut short as a man in blue jeans walks by me and I'm completely embarrassed at how absorbed I was in the memory. He lets out an awkward smile, probably in response to my reaction.

I'm at 5,175 steps.

I take the turn down home. Most walks have been fruitful. They come with clarity. So this is the exact point at which I feel it. When I am suddenly reminded of the rage the younger version of myself carried, She was always angry. Even now, I still feel her. I am just so tired of holding it. The anger has been seeping out slowly, and I wonder if she will be proud of that.

I knew statements like this one that seemed to torment me made her turn into a ball of fluff. I knew she would feel joy that she’d loved this way. I knew she tried her best to make sure she made the right choices. The ones that made her chest fill with words, she would not hesitate to let out if someone else were to take them away from her. So lately, I've been letting her know that it's okay to release control and it's okay to be terrified of becoming the person you despise so much. It’s all part of the fun.

I am standing in front of my father’s house. The one that looks like it is covered in all the red that has run down my arm.

I decided I needed to allow myself to receive as much as I could. This person gave and I did not even know how to receive it.

This is when I get preachy. It’s gross.

I tell little me that it's okay to not know it all. It's okay to receive help without immediately finding ways to give it back.

It is okay to allow yourself be the muse and not the artist.