Here is my disillusionment.

I had a muse, once. I carried the memory of him with me long after he left, and to be honest, I revelled in the fleeting encounters we had, brief words exchanged, and in my frustration to not scream I LOVE YOU, I would be snide, with my passive aggressive quips, just to try be stronger than I was.
I had him on this pedestal for about four years, I guess. Four years of swinging wildly between thinking he was an absolute shitcunt of a pseudo intellectual asshat to a wistful adoration of someone that commanded things (words, emotions, a presence, and animate brooms) far more than many I'd known and far far more than I ever thought I could.
When you seldom speak to someone you have a particular idea about, you dehumanise them, in a way. He was two dimensional, single faceted, closed off, far away and distantly shimmery.
Of course then we spoke on MSN at length and he added me on Facebook, and I realised he was a bored, morose hipster faggot who drank a lot of beer.
There is still a part of me that trills, but not for what he is now, but the image of him of yesteryear. The image I could have drowned in, and I believe it has dawned on me, perhaps not to its full extent, that more than anything I wanted to be him, because I saw this shimmery distance, romanticised and glittery, steeped in beautiful ennui and filled with poets.
It was bullshit, and I'm hoping I'll grow out of such shitty ideals, buuut...
Never can anything take away or change what he did for me. He gave me an inadvertent glimpse of a mirage world I desired to live in, gave me a goal, and gave me someone to write about.

Cheers, Ryan.
You're a cocksucker and I'd still tap that if it came to town.