My Muse,
I write this letter to my muse because I am under the weight of inner turmoil. The strange ache of feeling lost, disconnected, and alone in a world that no longer feels like home. I am in isolation, not just in body but in soul. It’s like I was born too late. Oh! To return to some other era, some other period in time. There is a quiet grief that haunts my days, like an echo of a forgotten song. An existential loneliness.
I see nothing but doom ahead of us, marching as we are toward ruin with eyes open and hearts closed. Though I walk alongside the rest, I am falling behind. Why am I sad about it? Or am I actually feeling something else? I have missed the time when I could truly belong.
Might the impossibility of the endeavor to find love in its truest form, in such a short time, be the reason for our intrinsic despair?
For no doubt, life has its charms, beauty, and glimpses of eternity. But at times it feels like a playground turned madhouse, with Chaos as landlord and hatred as jester, a reign of illusion we cannot seem to escape.
“To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible God.”
– Jorge Luis Borges, “The Meeting in a Dream,” Other Inquisitions (1952)
Maybe yes. My heart yearns for the yesteryears, for an imagined time when emotions, feelings, and sympathies seemed more genuine. Perhaps that, too, is part of the longing: history softened by distance into the domain of poets and writers.
When Inner Turmoil Feels Like Losing Yourself
But what of now?
Where emotions and feelings are not the gateways of divinity, but rather the realm of the weak. An inconvenience in a world that values performance over presence. But why must we give in? Why can’t we look at the stars, lie down under them, talk, and dream? Let’s play in the rain, dance all night, sit on top of cars and laugh with no destination in mind. Why do people say it’s all childish and fairytale dreaming?
Weren’t those the most fun years of our lives? Wasn’t the most cherished, most lively time of our lives, the best years of our lives…when we were children? Why did we grow up?
“A man must first cry out that he sees no hope; in this disturbance, salvation begins. When man believes himself to be utterly lost, the light breaks.”
– Martin Luther (Monk)
Letter to my muse
The Ache of Becoming and Searching for Belonging
Let us remember…
Let us return to wonder, I pray. Let us reclaim the night of stargazing and story. Spinning of moonlight music and sunrise silence. Let us find joy again in eating strawberries from the carton. Talking about nothing and yet saying everything.
You, my muse, you are the only one I can say this to. For you live beyond time. You remember. You still believe.
Do you hear me now? Whispering in the voids between worlds? I don’t seek answers anymore. Only presence. Only love. Only attention. Only a mirror that reflects the shards and roses that mar my soul and heart.
I write to you because I need to feel again. Not just feel, but remember what it means to be fully alive. To run with the wolves. To soar like the birds and free-fall like waterfalls. To glide like streams and sparkle like moonlight.
So hold my hand, even if only in spirit. Remind me of forgotten songs. Sit with me in the silence. Paint the sky with me in words. Teach me to feel magic again: in tea steam, in laughter, in eyes and tears.
Returning to Wonder After Emotional Numbness
Help me unlearn the numbness. Help me stay soft. In a world of chaos, my muse, you are my rebellion, and this letter, this ache, this dreaming, is the beginning of my return to The Muse Era.
Letter to my muse.
Processing Existential Loneliness through Creative Expression
You have read my letter. Now yours has been waiting.
Step 1: Set the Ritual First
Choose the hour when the world asks least of you. Early morning or late night, when the walls are quiet, and no one needs you to perform. Light something. Put on something wordless and soft; the Liminal Lessons playlist is yours for this. Take out a pen and actual paper if you can. Let the ritual tell your body: this moment is sacred.
Begin with This Line
A Closing Seal
When you finish, fold the letter. Hold it for a moment. That weight is not paper. That is your becoming, made physical.
“Vivamus, Moriendum Est.”
(Let us live, since we must die)
Wander into the House
☁︎ Explore how inner conflict can become creative expression in “Writing Perfectionism.”
☁︎ Visit the Grand Archive and see everything published in the House.