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What would life be like if i were simply and solely the muse? Would I come home after my office job each day and retire to the life of a muse? Everything I would do, even how my fingers would leave the door knobs I rest shut, would be watched. The way I’d shove my foot into my already laced shoes, spit my toothpaste, or touch myself would be surrounded by a pair of eyes that seem to never blink. The mouth attached might speak. It might direct my finger an inch deeper inside myself or ask me to skip the red onion. My question remains. Might that be wonderful?

The artist would inevitably record and reinvent. They would copy and edit. And the muse? Remain as human as ever. I would rest on an old plaid couch in my living room elongating my body for hours after returning home from work. My life would be a job, a phone call, and a sitting session. A job to fuel me and my desires. A phone call to reach a friend. A sitting session to enable the artist. Yet, I’m not just the muse in that scenario. If I were truly the muse, i’d lay in the monstrous cloudy bed with soft lips and supple asscheeks contoured by several hundred thread count sheets. Would I have the job and the phone call? My body would wake having never left the lubricated slide beneath the microscope. The artist would lurk. I’d start the tea and wipe the counter clean. All of this would be documented by their ravenous materials scattered off scene. And I would live, breathing deep knowing that existence was the occupation. I would live in entire freedom, but I must be watched. 

I’d live for the role, and the role would be me living. I might think about how reality could be indexed into videos, photos, and soundbites of cinematic pleasure, but my consciousness of the results would disintegrate my role. All my reality would be the inspiration, but I must never enact consciousness of it. How my days alone washing my dishes could be remarkably displayed could never come to my awareness. You’re endlessly curated but never curating.

The whole idea erodes my reality, though. I believe that happens for others, too. If so many people can be the muses of our reality, why can’t we? If we can, why aren’t we yet? Are we fundamentally under-appreciated? Do we all desire to be the muse for our followers and friends because we aren’t cared for by ourselves? This has become a spiral I’ve lost myself in. Are we making to be seen or are we making to make? Are makers and muses mutually exclusive?

Influencers embody both the muse and the consciousness, I guess. Their asscracks are trellising sheets day and night for their own photographs. They’ve done it. And it’s a champion duality. 

They might have the job, the phone call, the sitting session, and the index.