Musings Unraveled

"So...you have a website,” she inquires, pulling me back to the Here and Now.

"Oh, God. Here we go." I think to myself with a stab of panic.

"I do! It's always so weird when people I know find it."

"Really? I think it's cool you have a website and you write. It's brave." She responds warmly, with kind eyes brimming with curiosity.

That's usually how the conversations start when people discover I write publicly. It's always a funny and awkward interaction. I welcome it with a slight uneasiness.

"What do you write about? “Why do you write?" These are often asked, but I've never been quite sure how to answer them.

“It's a fun way to understand and untangle my thoughts because I’m a huge overthinker.”

This is my usual response. Always with a smile and a touch of laughter, but also with a slight cringe, because it almost feels like a lie.

It’s a genuine response, but unsatisfying. I say it because it’s the easiest way to explain to others casually.

Today, I still can’t articulate why I do. Maybe writing this is to finally nail down the appropriate response—the honest one.

Now, I pose the question directly to myself,

"Jacob, what do you write about? Why do you write? What does writing mean to you?"

I’m not writing. I’m translating.

The Voice Not My Own

When I revisit my past writings, it almost feels like I didn’t write them.

I know what invited the words, but from where remains a mystery to me. I know I “wrote” the words, but they feel more foreign than familiar.

In one of my earliest public writings, “Writing in a Journal Saved My Mental Health,” I described journaling as “releasing the poison.”

Back then, journaling was to siphon what I used to consider “negative thoughts." Rereading it now, “poison” was too harsh of a word.

It was not poison, but The Muse.

I know, I know. Calling it "The Muse" makes it sound mystical or pretentious. I'm familiar with the artistic cliche, "It did not come from me. It came through me."

I admire this notion when applied to others. When applied to myself, I can't help but roll my eyes in embarrassment.

But you may call “It” whatever like: consciousness, the universe, a higher power, or any other romantic holy term you deem appropriate.

For now, I shall call it “The Muse” and The Muse is on a mission.

Her mission is to speak.

Her mission is to exist.

Her mission is to enter this world from The Other.

Her origin is unknown, but I know her destination is Here.

She is relentless. She arrives without warning and refuses to leave until I finish my job.

My job is to be a translator. Yes, a translator. It feels more appropriate than "writer" because I've always had an affinity for etymology and language.

No, I’m not afraid to share writings publicly. It’s not "brave" as some so kindly view it.

Writing isn't "brave", at the very least (especially) my own. Writing is thinking and it's in our nature to think.

If it’s in our nature to think, why would performing your intrinsic function be brave? That's like saying it's brave for a dog to bark.

Writing about what I think isn't brave. Choosing to defend one's country is brave. Choosing to raise a child is brave. These are the highest form of skin in the game: confronting Death and creating Life.

Writing about what I think is brave? Insulting.

But understanding this, I still love writing. Despite knowing this, I still fear writing.

The fear is not of opinion but opportunity. The divine opportunity to translate well.

“Am I misinterpreting her? Am I hearing her correctly? Am I capturing her voice appropriately, or am I distorting her?”

Art is to bring the formless into form without destroying it...and I fear destroying it. Perhaps that's why I procrastinate "writing" as often as I do.

I don't want to ruin "This." The thought of misunderstanding wither my fingers into a fist.

But The Muse remains unwavering. She stands tall and speaks her voice.

A voice that sings in my head until it either drives my sanity into the ground or ignites my heart into flight. Either way, I have no choice but to surrender to her calling: listen and transcribe.

She speaks. I translate. Together, Art emerges.

The Mess of Sculptures

Answers are under the illusion of problems, I need to see through. Truth is distorted under the noise of lies, I need to tune in. The Muse is trapped under heavenly marble, I need to bring out.

But where to start? Where to begin in the glorious act of creation? The only thing to do is the most difficult thing to do: Get out of the way.

Underneath the mess is the golden nugget of Understanding. I need to remove the mess, and the mess is me.

When I first started writing, I focused too much on “being good” or worried about “being bad.”

Reviewing my old writings now and they smell rancid. I'm tempted to throw them away because they reek of Me.

My recent writings, however, possess a different aroma. They no longer carry my scent but hers.

I pay no concern now about good writing or bad writing. I only care about “Is this true? Is this how it feels?” These are my only concerns alongside sharing the writings.

Which brings the question, “Why share these writings in the first place?”

One could argue keeping these writings private wouldn't diminish their value. These writings are primarily for me anyway. So why share these musings at all?

Is it a desire to be recognized? Is it because I believe I have something to say? Sounds rather prideful and egoic, no?

There's an element of truth to this. The feeling of being understood and the receipts of compliments do feel nice. I will not deny or suppress the existence of ego here. However, these feelings are not important to me.

I display a piece of writing so it may stand. When it stands, I gain the satisfaction of having it finished.

To display writing brings a risk, not of vulnerability but my translation skills. “Did I translate well?”

To display writing means it's available to an audience. If there’s an audience, it needs to make sense, and the only audience I care about is Me.

If only written privately, that would allow me to play with these words forever. I don’t want to play with them forever.

The Muse and I want “It” to be done so we can converse about something else. This conversation's getting old.

If only written privately, that would permit these words to live in my head. I don’t want them to live in my head.

“It” already exists in heaven, but it does not exist on Earth. I want it to exist on Earth because I am.

Yes, Ego is here. There's pride in saying "This was made through me" (queue eye roll).

But what's paramount is its existence. It can’t truly exist until it’s shared. Why? Because the sharing is me finally letting go.

Like a child born fully grown, it can live without me. I may watch the child from afar and recognize my flaws within it, but I’m content in knowing it can live and breathe by itself now.

Wholly Communion

The Muse and I have a funny relationship. We collaborate, dance, and argue. She has no sense of Time while I’m bound by it.

We're different yet the same and we both have specific roles to fulfill.

• Her duty is to arrive, and I'm her doorman.
• Her purpose is to be marble, and I'm her sculptor.
• Her existence is to present herself, and I'm her painter.
• Her goal is to run, and I need to get out of the way.
• Her job is to speak, and I’m her translator.

Writing is this vessel's outlet for Truth.

If I could capture this magic through a camera, I’d be a photographer. If I could wield divinity with colors, I’d be a painter. If there was any other medium I could do in service toward Her and Truth, I would.

But it seems words will do for now.

Words exchanged seem to be fresh and ever-changing. Yet, I feel a pull to say it's one grand conversation from all of us, a galaxy infinitely composed of individual stars.

I’m unsure where this conversation will lead at The End. All I know is every word is one step toward embracing and understanding The Voice. Not my own, but ours.

The Marble grooves into the stone of Me
The Element of dreams and illusions.
Chipping and carving. Plenty, fickle and light
They fall with loud booms of narcissism.

Eternal remains, ink bled onto the canvas
Revealing an image of The Voice sung once.
The Song reverberates from The Beginning, never-ending
A shadowed whisper gifted behind.

Bonus

Writing Principles:

• Don’t think. Thinking means “You” and we‘ve had enough of “You.”
• Throw up (the words). That’s The Muse speaking. Record her speech.
• Banish "right" and "wrong." Focus on “Is This how it feels? and "Is it True?”
• The Golden Nugget is here. Creation is in the destruction. Remove thyself.
• Don’t teach. Don’t be clever. Only Truth.