My Muse.

My Muse, part one.

"Dear Diary, it's December 12th, 2022, and I'm at a loss. The pressure's on as the guys in the band are getting antsy over my lack of lyric inspiration for our new song. 'The clock’s ticking, Oliver!' they nag, as if I'm not painfully aware. I've been trying, really trying, but words elude me. No melodies, no tunes, no riffs... Nothing. It's beyond frustrating. Can't say I'll ever come up with anything decent. But I'll keep at it, I guess."

        Click. "Ugh! This is stupid. Diaries are stupid. Voice logs are stupid. This band, is stupid." I sigh and throw myself on my bed in frustration.

"Come on, Oliver, think! The competition is in three weeks, and you haven't got a single idea for a new song." I sit up, clutching a pillow tightly.

Surveying my room, I scrutinize every object, searching for inspiration. "Okay... record player, window shades, school bus, cand—Oh, damn it, the school bus! I'm late!" I scramble out of bed, hastily throwing on clothes strewn across the floor.

Racing through the house, I slide through the kitchen while wrestling my shoes on. "Bye, Mom!" I shout, darting out the door. "Later, bud! Have a good day!" her voice trails after me as I slip out, already resigned to being late.

"Yeah, there's no way I'm making it on time... oh well," I mutter, checking my watch. Spotting someone at the bus stop, I approach, puzzled. "Hey, you're waiting for the bus, right?" I inquire.

"Hm? Oh, yes! I am!" Her voice is sweet, a pleasant surprise. "For Crest Hill High School, yeah?" I ask with concern.

"Yesss? Why?" she responds, her confusion endearing.

"Well, because, um, the bus—it comes at seven thirty," I explain gently.

"I know...?" She tilts her head in confusion.

“Well, it's currently eight forty..." I try again, perplexed by her reaction.

"So the bus came ten minutes ago..." I clarify, watching her count on her fingers, her delicate hands captivating.

"But are those not the same thing? Thirty and forty?" she mumbles, hanging her head in defeat.

I chuckle to myself, unsure of what she meant. "I'm actually walking there now. Would you like to join me?"

"Yes! I would love to!" Her excitement is infectious.

"So, what's your name?" I ask, eager to connect.

"My name? Oh um," she hesitates, glancing at her arm. "It's Steph!"

"Steph, that's a nice name," I remark, genuinely impressed.

"Thanks! My parents gave it to me!" Her smile is radiant.

"What's yours?" she asks, turning the conversation back to me.

"It's Oliver." I smile, enjoying the way she says it.

"Ahliver. Ohliver, Oliver. I like it a lot!" Her playful tone sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

"Thank you, my parents gave it to me too," I reply, laughing at her reaction.

With no conversation topics in mind, we continue walking in silence, our heads bowed, lost in our thoughts. Steph. What a peculiar yet intriguing girl...

School, the place where conformity reigns supreme. It's ironic, really. Here, I can blend in, hide behind a facade, and escape the pressures of being myself. What a delightful environment... I'm being facetious, of course. This circus is far from wonderful. Everyone seems to fit into one of two categories: the popular ones who couldn't care less about anyone else, or the popular ones who thrive on making others' lives miserable.