The Way Out of a Fog

The sun has finally burned through the sky of snow and the land is dressed in bridal white. The birds have picked the sun on their feathers to the grain on the floor. And my mind has picked the perfect morning to be miserable.

Does it happen to you that your mind is having so much fun at night that it keeps waking you up? I have been struggling with the audacity of my dreams. Most nights I am up at 3 am where I have vivid memories of being in the middle of nowhere, traveling through enormous cities, erotic encounters with strangers, being in boats that fly; missing trains; counting currency that I don’t recognize…

The day seems dire in comparison. And slowly the fog of boredom creeps in and rubs out all the powerlines of enthusiasm; leaving me at the mercy of the same mind that was having an orgy just a few hours ago and wishes I would just fall asleep so that it could play again.

It is at moments like this, I reach for my laptop. Switch on a blank page on Medium and start to write.

I write to run from the fog of fear. I write to fight the dread of the meaningless minute. I write to find the chipped cup of hope in the attic of my existence. I write to save myself from my selfish self. I write to get rescued to the shore by the winds of my muse.

Writing is my muse.

As a verb, to muse is to consider something thoughtfully. As a noun, it means a person — especially a woman — who is a source of artistic inspiration. In my case, my muse is a force inside me that helps me lose my sense of egoic entrapment. It is a force that takes form as a cloud when it notices that I need inspiration. Steven Pressfield captured this energy well when he said;

“This is the other secret that real artists know and wannabe writers don’t. When we sit down each day and do our work, power concentrates around us. The Muse takes note of our dedication. She approves. We have earned favor in her sight. When we sit down and work, we become like a magnetized rod that attracts iron filings. Ideas come. Insights accrete.”
― Steven Pressfield, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks & Win Your Inner Creative Battles

Writing is my way to connect to a world beyond and within.

It is a vivid garden of solitude where I can indulge in the orgy of creativity. Writing helps me undress my chains of conformity and sink into a hot tub of ideas that swirl slavishly around me, wrinkling me with their abundance, where I can selfishly pick and string them to my heart’s desire.

Writing allows me to sacrifice myself to the masses.

Writing is my service. It’s where I show my scars to help identify with those that fear the pain. It’s how I try to help lessen the suffering in the world. I confess my sins to enable others to feel less alone in theirs.

Writing is my prayer.

Writing lets me meditate to the god of attention. It lets me chant with my fingers. It lets me open my temple anywhere I am. It lets me look at myself and look for myself. Writing is my way to feel connected to the force.

“I write because it is
the only way I can
reach you.”
― Sanober Khan

Coda:

Writing is my mystic muse.

What’s yours?

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Previously published on medium

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