A new muse.

She dances beneath the pear tree each and every day. The only tree within the bounds of her world.

A rat, in danger of becoming a white before she had mastered her craft.

So close to perfection and yet she wants more.

I? Well I watched her. For I had nothing better to do with my time. As trapped in my world as she was in hers.

I have watched her since she was a child. Now so close to adulthood, but her body too thin and fragile to become a woman’s. the rigours she puts herself through. The torments. She has broken her body through love. Through obsession.

Believe me, I have no interest in her in the way that you suspect. Practically a daughter to me, so long have I watched her.

Though she would never know me, I am always here, watching over her. Like an Angel I must suppose.

Through spring rain, and the hot sun of summer. The dancing winds of autumn and the bitter chill of winter. Every evening after her practice with the rest of the dancers, she will escape them, running on silent feet out behind the Opera House, to the yard where the stables are, to dance alone.

And she dances beneath the pear tree. Her constant. Her connection to the Earth.

In the Autumn she would allow herself a bite of the flesh. Ripe, dripping dew down her chin. The fruit that grew from the blossoms that had fallen around her spinning form. But no more than a bite. The rest of the sweetness abandoned to the insects and the birds. To the rot that inevitably sets in. But she is young, she sees not that.

She is lonely. I can see it in the lines of her face. In the way that she pushes herself ever onward, striving for perfection. I admire that quality, even as the whisper of worry scatters my mind. Such emotion confuses me. She shuns the other girls of the troupe and she dances and dances until she falls down. Then she trails to her bed. Always alone.

I can understand. I am lonely. I have been alone for twice the time that she has.

But she has everything to give. I have nothing to give. But she keeps it close to her. That heart that beats so fast as she takes the music from the wind and the leaves. The dance is the only thing freeing her heart up from the chains she keeps it locked up in.

At least her chains could loose. Stone is less easy to break. That organ that has kept me alive in my shadow world for so damned long has become calcified, unreachable, untouchable.

Today she got Prima. She was solemn as it was announced. She has no one to share in her joy. The other girls eyes flash their jealousy and I see why she stays away.

Save for the little cricket at the back. The new one. The rat that cannot dance. Her eyes showed me only admiration. But I know her not to be a rat, only a songbird trapped in satin.

I watch again, as the snow falls, the Prima. Standing beneath the pear tree with tears in her eyes. The ice wind chilling the salt to her lashes.

The bare branches offer neither of us comfort. A part of my heart cracks, softens. But only a little.

For the songbird comes out from behind the tree. It is her place now. Hidden behind it’s twisted bark and dead leaves.

She smiles. They both smile. I feel the buds stir even during winters foul embrace.

Let it begin. A new muse. Let it begin, again.