she is composed of many piecesshe has been angel's wings, and the figure of a goddess, and words written to long lost loversshe has been a cry for help, a dying breath, a symphonyshe has been so many different things that she can no longer tell who or what she is identity: the condition of being a certain person or thing she was never a person, not really.perhaps there was a point when she possessed enough facets of individuality to potentially be considered a "thing"but it has been a very long time since she held a corporeal form for longer than a few years (which, to an immortal idea, are seconds) The Nine Muses were Greek goddesses who ruled over the arts and sciences and offered inspiration in those subjects. she does not like being referred to in the past tensethough she has been virtually forgotten, and cognitively recognized by only select crowds (professors, students, history enthusiasts) she is still hereand always will beshe is not sure where her sisters areit has been a long time since they were togetherconcepts no longer flow together like they used to; one is branded either a "creative" or "intellectual" and there is no crossover - no contact with her sisters she is very lonely, and is constantly lostshe wanders among the forest of minds of men, providing inspiration for their craft she doesn't know why she still does this, why she still finds her way into dreams and nightmares and ink stained hands - it's a compulsion now(you can't control the muse; she can't even control herself)she has been many statues, including one so beautiful that her human creator fell in love with herand she felt sorry for him when she left, but she had done her job - he had created the artwork, he no longer needed a museshe has been paintings, of queens and battlefields, of wine soaked lovers captured in rough brush strokesshe has been words, so many words she has seen so muchshe has seen people who were absolutely insane, and she was the only thing they knew how to use for helpshe has seen the sky from every location possible in the world, and from a few other places tooshe has been present in so many private interactions - emotional, physical, sexual - because she will be needed during the aftermathshe has been in journals inside backpacks, in sets of paint brushes, in hands tinted grey with clay a museum could be created just to hold her stories,of her wonderful and terrible and never-ending existenceand in a way, she still is all of those thingsa little piece of her stays with each artwork she helps to inspireit is like she leaves behind a Polaroid taken of her identity and meaning in the moment in which this work was donebecause though she is no longer neededshe despairs at the thought of being forgotten