1350–1400; Middle English Muse < Middle French < Latin Mūsa < Greek Moûsa
After receiving your letter I am stricken by its beauty. I will try to answer as best my words allow so that you may know me better as you so desire.
You spoke of your changing wind and how I inspire your “revival of the words.” I have a wind too, my far away friend. My wind follows me, and like Neruda so passionately wrote – a poem written for me; a woman – a muse such as his Matilda, “The wind is a horse: hear how he runs – through the sea, through the sky. He wants to take me: listen – how he roves the world – to take me far away.” I hear him charging, only I don’t hide any longer. I welcome him into my house as he is my lover; my confidant. The wind is the only to understand me..
My wind carries with it passion, torment, grace and sexuality. This muse the world sees so shallowly, only to create depth within themselves is indeed, very real; alone though together. For a muse is never without the company of the horse inside of her head – my wind continues to be my company as I stand on the cliff-side looking over the Mediterranean while the very tempest of life swirls around my wild hair, my dress, my hands, my skin….my dark blue eyes. As always, my breath is taken from me. Far away.
Who is this woman, this muse that I am? Sincerity is relative, much like what is to be the spectacular or normal. For passion to be scaled is a disgrace as it then bastardizes the passion which some hold so frightfully in contempt. I hold nothing in contempt, as my wind steals it from my body. Who is better, who is lovelier, who has redder lips, a saltier taste and pupils which consume the objective and beautiful…when there is never a valid reason?