It has a firm hold on me.
My muse, I mean. At first it was simple - I got the inspiration to write a few stories here and there, the odd poem. I'd scribble them down in the nearest thing – a notebook at the bottom of my bag, usually. The occasional whim instantly recorded then forgotten.
By the end of a week my notebook was full up. I bought another, then another. I found myself jotting things down with more frequency, but still thought nothing of it. Until I started using my laptop. At home, this was more convenient; it saved paper, after all. Type type type type, I wrote and tapped into the hours of the night. Dozens of stories and novels and epics. I wondered why my face looked increasingly drawn from lack of sleep.
It soon seeped and seeded fully into my life. My free time was spent composing and forming the endless chains of ideas in my head. I was so engrossed I skipped meals, kept losing sleep. Friends were forgotten and my job soon lost it's importance. Everything paled in comparison beside the need to write. Write, my muse said, urged. I needed no pushing; countless ideas bubbled up in my head daily and I feared I would explode from the pressure if I did not express them.
Expression. Writing was my expression, my release... but it kept coming and the need to release it all remained infinite. I ate barely enough to survive and my energy level was near nonexistent. My muse's power was the opposite. It is taking over my life. I realised one day, then typed the thought onto a blank page over and over until it somehow morphed into a sonnet. I wrote song lyrics, too, but when the words reached the page they suddenly lacked all meaning. Song lyrics were meant to sing, and yet the ability seemed to have left me. I had been silent for so long now – talking had become irrelevant. Not just because I was a lone stranger in my own abode (were the curtains red or green again? I had ceased to notice), but because writing was all that mattered. Dozens of messages had been ignored from the answering machine – they were unprocessed. All that I now took in were words on paper or screen.
I blamed myself, in some part of my mind that wasn't composing. I had given in, let myself be led down this path that ended in only letters, words, writing. How could I have known that my muse was so driven and my well of ideas like the waves of an ocean? It couldn't be helped, now. I hadn't left my house in weeks; dozens and hundreds of novels in the past. I was chained to my laptop (tap tap tap tap like a very drumbeat of Hell). My ideas needed expressing or I would burst. Would I? I didn't know, I now had no control, I just had to write. Even when my laptop died, ceased to exist in the cesspool of words and phrases that represented my ideas in a limitless form, it did not matter. Not in the scheme of things. I sought out then switched to notebooks, the very objects that I had innocently jotted in all that time ago. Scribbling and scrawling the hours away... The notebooks didn't last long and I resorted to scraps of paper to satisfy my muse. It was never mollified.
Never... leaflets, calendars, packaging... it just kept coming... books, wallpaper... perhaps it always would. In my desperation, I turned to myself – my very skin became almost tattooed with what I now thought of as my own doom. Probably was... it suited my state of mind. Words words words all the time. At least they'd know how I died.
Would they? ...Would I die? I no longer was terrified at the thought, my tales of horror fast turning into ones of bittersweet hope as my feelings changed. I hoped for a release. The true release of death, for the muse inside my mind refused to die. It spurred my hands on with every passing day. I don't know why. I don't know how.. why it got so bad. Was it me? Or could it not be helped? I just didn't know, and this, this very tale (autobiography?) started to write itself. I wanted to warn, say something to anyone who finds me. However they find me – whether I was still here, continuously writing as an uncontrollable outlet, or if I had at last expired and wrote myself to death... I wanted to give a message. I want to give a message. Maybe you, the reader, have found the same pleas and indicators of my fate all over my house, or perhaps this is the only one. Whatever the amount, please just... take note. That this is what happened to me; that I wasn't always the hopeless case I am now. I don't know whether you care. Perhaps you agree with me and I will go down in the depths of tragedy, or be cast away from memory, never to be mentioned again. Or perhaps you will read some of my (?) endless work and praise it as genius, either posthumously or merely taking my release of words and leaving me to it.
Whatever you think of me, please take note of this message. This is what happened to me.
It has a firm hold on me...
No, it has an iron grip on me. My muse that has no mercy.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought of it - constructive criticism is much appreciated (though this is my first story up here so please be somewhat gentle). :)