Muse of Time

When we first met there was something in me that believed we had met before, despite living worlds apart. After a time I thought that perhaps it was a past life of mine, a hint of a memory my soul still held onto, that recognised something within her. It is like I am a portion of a reincarnated soul that knows a piece of hers but I cannot tell what time or place it comes from.

Her existence was inexplicable, it was as if her soul were only thinly veiled by her outward appearance but behind that delicate film was a palette of colour no painter could match. An artist may spend a lifetime trying to capture the complexity she displays in her casual existence, the breath of something more they struggle to capture in ink or acrylic; each depiction would be beautiful but lacking.

Instinct tells me that her current life is not the first she has lived and if only I could tug that thread of curiosity and follow its lead; then it would unravel years of experiences her simple smile could not detail.

It is in all the small things that I can’t explain, like the way her hair falls in such a way it is as though it remembers wearing a crown; as though it longs for the familiar weight. Like how her eyes are the green of forests that were felled before modern cities were even shadows on the horizon and how they glow with golden sunlight when she laughs. How her youthful joy somehow holds a layer of wisdom that must have taken lifetimes to accumulate but is undaunted by the ache that usually accompanies it. You can see it in the ease in which she draws others into her happiness, embracing them with warmth, a gentle confidence that speaks volumes without the use of words.

She has a distinct beauty of youthful approachability mingled with ancient elegance that hides just below the surface for those who grow to know her. Her skin is not marked beyond what her twenty-something years should naturally hold and yet it seems as though you need only look close enough to see wounds that tell stories of wars waged when time was measured by the stars and maps held more questions than answers. She would look equally well-placed in the back seat of a limousine in a ball gown made from crushed diamonds as she would on the back of a stallion in leather armour wielding a weapon.

It was as though she contained the grace of a century of poise and the adaptability of a spy with decades of experience; though I harbour doubts that she would ever pull the trigger on a mark, whether innocent or guilty - she has too much honour for such a kill.

With a pair of low heels and a French twist she would be a patriarchal dream wife with a cook-book full of casserole ideas and yet you could replace that with blue jeans and an ever-present glass of wine and she would be the modern housewife inspiration for ‘Stacey's mum’ and yet with either she would have the attitude of a goddess who has never knelt to the whim of a man.

It unnerved me how she seemed so classically unique and yet, as if a chameleon, could choose to camouflage into whoever the situation demanded. It made me wonder if her expertise should be used in acting or theatre but perhaps she holds her secrets too tightly for such exposure, perhaps she doesn’t see herself the way I do.

Sometimes I am afraid to read the traces of memories trapped in her soul, afraid to find the story of the Garden of Eden whispered there, a biography in gospel. Yet still I have found myself tempted to hand her a pear just to see if it fits as naturally in her palm as I assume it would, I am curious if any has ever tasted the same as the first; was it bitter or sweet? Do pear trees litter her garden in an ironic nod to the beginning of it all?

I wouldn’t be shocked to find the light of the first stars reflected in her eyes or traces of the first rain hidden within her bones. There is a mystery in her expression that makes me wonder how many empires she had seen fall and how many she had caused? I wondered if the taste of olives reminded her of white marble columns or if she has ever bathed in rivers that once ran their course on land that now runs dry. I wonder if she ever loved a gladiator or fought as one? I wonder how many things displayed in museums were once common-place items within her home.

How many thrones were hers to claim? How many lives? Does she miss the days of old or does she think of them fondly when the world is quiet and the smell of a storm reminds her that some things never change?

Does her soul look at me and see a memory that I have lost to time or am I just another face amongst the endless, soon to be forgotten with the tide?

I cannot tell if she has bespelled time to give itself to her or if time has taken her to be its muse; but either way it has culminated into a beauty that would give anyone pause and cause questions to form upon their lips; though they would be forever unsure as to what made them so drawn to ask them.