My muse

November 7, 2012
Named after the golden sunshine her mother longed to have when she was born, Aurelia had arrived. She was born inside a long forgotten mansion overrun with ivy, which resides in a secluded hill deep in the rolling hills of Ireland. Aurelia knows not when she was born, other than that it was a storming Tuesday in July. She has no definite age, she is nothing but the age of the time. She came from a poor family that had barely enough money to provide her with a pen and journal. The journal was brand new, and the color of the moon reflecting off the dark navy nighttime waters of Lake michigan, her favorite color. She wrote about what she wanted to achieve, and who she wanted to be. Dreaming of travel she left her sweet home in Ireland to achieve better things, to inspire a young girl and her visions. She arrived at her new home, a dark obscure antique shop in a forgotten part of town. Silently in her small apartment she eats her favorite meal of mushrooms and rice from a small, fragile glass bowl her grandmother had given to her before she left. She sat wondering what she should do to be an inspiration. She glanced at her old worn bike she had purchased at an old shop long ago. The bike was once a beautiful glimmering blue with white handles, now it is the color of the sky after a storm has passed, the handles now a worn dingy ivory. The colors of her bike seemed to inspire the sound of a great idea. She grabbed her bike and headed to a small cafe at the end of the street. She needed inspiration herself, she listened to a band that was unknown and uncared for hours finally understanding her plan. Now on every second Tuesday of every month she goes around giving strangers random, obscure words in the hopes of giving them inspiration of some sort. She felt excited and happy to have possibly inspired someone, but still she was missing something herself. Aurelia headed towards her favorite place to write, next to a small serene creek in a secluded wood. She sat down, opened her old tattered journal and wrote the word skulduggery multiple times in hopes that it would bring something to her mind. Frustrated she threw the journal into the creek, crying that she had lost her inspiration, she had no muse. She looked down at her worn dress that she bought years ago, when a small glisten from her pocket caught her eye. She reached into her pocket to find her prized possession, a small locket containing the photographs of her past, her family, and her home. She smiled to herself thinking of home in Ireland. She remembered the ways she used to pass her days. No matter the time, day, or weather she could be found dancing outside in puddles, leaves, snow, and grass. She loved the feeling of the winds embracing her and bringing her comfort and peace of mind, the feeling that made her become a muse. Remembering this thoughts she was brought at ease, grabbed her now sopping wet journal, and traveled home. Aurelia went on happily being the muse and inspiration of in need minds.

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