Muse is painful rapture. She or he or them. In you. Such depths of being lost in freefall are beyond lustful word cages which lean towards authority. It may or may be not your soul, a higher self or something Jung connected. Hot achilles’ heel of Freud’s womb-fetish. It’s fully, truly immaterial. It really is.

When the air is heaving, breathing right back at you, when it seems that something’s going to happen and you’ve no clue what it is, only that it’s way beyond even wishing to control, then Muse is present. So you give, no, surrender all – and expect nothing.

Can you expect nothing?

It’s like watching a gorgeous map illuminate onscreen at an alarming rate. Or that media player, describing tone in motioned colour. You’re a stunned witness and suddenly you know that you are a dark screen for creation.

On your perfect empty space energies connect, split open, multiply.

This is pre-word still in thought. It’s a different language here and words slow you down. So you tinker with a keyboard or a pen just so you don’t get in the way. Sometimes words fall, accidentally it seems, from the wake of neuron fire. You rush to gather them. These are the ones you treasure, nurture later, but not now because you might miss something on the screen and it’s compulsive viewing.

If you can, remember everything. Accept that you won’t. Know that you’ll mourn each loss, forever feel the trace of where each fire snaked through nerve and then left.

Muse journeys are so-willed yet always unprepared for. It’s not like you anticipate stepping out naked on a multi-laned highway in midnight’s rushing hour – but here you are. Hoping that you’ll never be the same again. Wishing you could stay forever because here is real. With its feet up on your ego while its cigarette is burning through your nightgown. And you don’t care about that. Even if it hurts. Even when it hurts. Only that it’s so.

And the voices say “this way” all at once. You can’t ask them to slow down, though you try. They don’t like that much. You can’t ask what they mean, you’ve only got a hair’s breadth of their language, a series of unfolding lightwaves not a structure. Don’t even think about it in those terms because here’s a vastness strong enough to dissolve rather than dilute essence. Give it yours.

Later, when you’re picking up the pieces of your self, it’s a comfort that the muse’s claw stuck purposefully in your heart cannot be dislodged.

Beloved token. Mystery. In You. Again.

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