• I remember him, he was a beautiful child, excuse me… teenager; not perfect but still, beautiful. I had never spoken to him, but I had looked him in the eyes, several times. That's how I knew he had those eyes. I couldn't tell if they were blue or brown from where I sat, but I had hoped they were blue, a beautiful blue. No… wait they are… were blue, a dark, but deep, lost shade of blue that could only be found in a living human eye. A color that would fade and disappear, the kind of blue that would glaze over into a fine shade of grainy gray, in death. Oh yes, he was a beautiful creature. A friend once thought I had a crush on him, but it wasn't like that, I just thought he was beautiful, I was an artist admiring a muse, a nymph. On of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Pale, thin like a skeleton almost, sunk in curves defines his starved face as dirty red hair created a picture frame for his lightly acne-touched face. I remembered how he resembled Jim Morrison, with pouty lips and tired eyes. He was like Morrison with how thin he was as well, it looked as if the only weight on him was his clothes. But unlike Morrison he was quiet [and most likely not a drinker, but who knows, maybe he was]. So you could say he was more like a fresh Jim Morrison corpse, a bit pale, but still strikingly beautiful. He was the perfect muse. He inspired me more than any one ever had before. But it was those eyes that did it for me, with those eyes, he had instantly became my muse. The unnatural shade of blue put almost a glow on his face. His blue seemed like it could cause even the deepest part of the sea to feel envy, and make the foulest blue of the sky bow to its oppressor, his eyes. A blue that rivaled both black and white, it was dark, and sinister when he was far away, almost mysterious; yet bright, and innocent when he was up close. For awhile, I didn't know his name, when it was finally revealed I found his name in no way fit for his beauty. But for some reason, any other name wouldn't seem as right, of course, the name I called him by was either nymph, or muse. I called him "nymph" because he reminded me of a scene in William Shakespeare's Hamlet when Hamlet has decided to deal with the pains of life, and greets Ophelia as "nymph" when she comes to give him back his "tokens". But the tokens he has allowed me to see, he will never be able to take or give back, now that I have those eyes engraved in my memory. I wish his voice was there too, but I hadn't heard it enough to remember it, but his kind of beauty was the kind best left with both no name and no voice; for beauty like his speaks on its own. His story, the story I wrote for him, told of passion, loneliness, abuse, and a crushed spirit. His story expressed him as a villain, and treated him as such. I could read it all, through his eyes. He was a frequent sinner, sins that consisted of mainly envy, a touch of lust, but never pride, and never wrath, he was too modest for either one of those. He had the desire to be brave, but a memory of something had been haunting him, and it scared him into his silence and isolation. On the inside he was young. But he, unlike many, was truly alone. I felt sorry for him. Even though I had completely no idea what he was going through, no idea, just a guess. At times I would feel as if I knew for a fact that my life was better than his, but that was just a guess. He never did seem to be a happy child. He'd drag his feet, his head hung low with his hands shoved and crammed into his jeans pockets, and his eyes usually closed as if he were sleep walking. A sleep that he acquired during class, then again he was a B/A student from what I heard, but sleep always interested him more than school. As if dreams and nightmares were far better than reality itself, better than his reality at least. But that only made my decision to turn him into words all the better. In my art he would live forever, forever as I remember him, forever miserable, and forever dragging his feet like a lonely streetwalker. Even so, I had been jealous of the boy. He was lonely, but beautiful, he was dead silent, but intelligent. I was an average child with average grades, he was anything but. I never did speak with him, but sometimes he'd perhaps accidentally nudge me or pass me by, but is always seemed like he always made it a goal to avoid eye contact with anyone and everyone. Whenever he'd pass me by, I'd try to catch a look at his eyes, to maybe get a chance to see those eyes up close. I remember how I always did like getting up in front the class to talk, because I could catch a few looks at his eyes, but I never really did get a good look. I didn't really get my chance until the end of the school year when I took pictures of the class after telling them that I had written about them. I got a picture of him included with the others in the class, the picture doesn't do his eyes justice. Then of course I took the advantage of most likely never seeing him again and decided to tell him I thought his eyes were beautiful, but the words came out as "really pretty" instead. I laughed because I thought I had scared him with the way I had just barged up to him to show my friends his eyes. They secretly told me they thought he was beautiful as well, they said he would make a perfect muse for them as well; they later laughed telling me "you saw him first". That's how writers are, we don't share our muses, that's what everyone is to a writer. Everyone is a muse, everyone is, in one way or another, being watched by an artist who will later express the story they arrived at via their muse. And this boy was, at the moment, my muse, everyday I would write little by little, the story of my muse, but I found that my muse was too fascinating to hide behind a false story; the truth was much better.