A relationship diverges in a snowy wood.
The muse takes the path to the left.
The artist takes the path on the right.
Seasons change and the events that make up a script for a life direct each of them in their seperate shows. That, which most easily is defined as two people who were destined to find each other, paints an image of infinite sadness in light of their divergence. That which is more difficult to define paints an image of light from darkness, as each still carries the torch given to them by the other. Either way, the painting is a mad rush of color that one must step back from in order to understand the complexities emanating from the canvas. No one can really step back that far without losing sight of the painting, and thus the painting can never be understood.
The artist learned every word of his language in order to seek out the words that would explain him to his muse. The muse avoided telling him that she needed no words in order to understand. She could feel everything quite clearly whenever they occupied the same space. Still, she let him study his words and write them down for her in every possible arrangement. Sounds, syllables, music, poetry, stories, epics... they were all written and played out for her in the hope that dreams would filter themselves onto the canvas they shared. No matter what, the path diverged in the snowy wood and one would have to go right and the other would have to go left. There was no other way, and as the snow approached and the wood came upon them, he struggled mightily against the winds of what had already been decided.
There is no simplicity in art, the nature of the beast is that it requires something to drive you forward. Pain is the greatest motivator, as it bends us to its will and needs us to fight to overcome its obstacles. At the same time it inspires us and gives us reason to create. Pain is the greatest story. It is the greatest piece of music. It is the greatest painting. If you set art to boil and wait long enough, you will see everything but the pain itself boil away.
And yet the pain must be tempered with joy, and with hope. Memories dance through a garden interspersed with happiness and sorrow. Tragedy weaves a web even in a carefully tended garden of delight. The layman sees pain, sorrow and loss as obstacles to be overcome. The artist is fueled by them and the true muse becomes the fuel.
A happy artist becomes complacent, preferring cocktail parties and long leisurely afternoons by the pool to the act of creation. Without at least channeling pain, art becomes words on a paper, paint on a canvas, notes in a song and nothing more. The true artist torments himself or herself when the well of sorrow runs dry. There is no easier way to contact the depths of the soul than through pain, and it is in the depths of the soul where art truly lives.
The muse takes the path to the left.
The artist takes the path on the right.
She knew her purpose was to cause him pain.
She could no longer bear to bring it upon him.
Walking away was the only way to continue.
And it is how she inspires him to this day.