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On Cowardice, Muses, and Dante
Many moons ago, the muses would whisper in my ear that I must take the path I most fear. For years I took that path, but for the last couple of years my path has been one of cowardice. I would not enter a dark woodland without a torch—and that made all the difference. I used books, essays, and thoughts of others as armour; alas, 'twas made of sugar. At any hint of rain, the armour would melt away, leaving behind all that I had stopped facing.
" Master...Who are those people so defeated by their pain?" And he to me: "This miserable way is taken by the sorry souls of those who lived without disgrace and without praise. They now commingle with the coward angels, the company of those who were neither rebels nor faithful to their God, but stood apart. The heavens, that their beauty not be lessened, have cast them out; nor will deep Hell receive them—even the wicked cannot glory in them."— Dante Alighieri
I became like Echo and Narcissus—my thoughts not my own; self-absorbed in consumption and rumination of self—neither good nor healthy. How could I have heard their whispers when all I heard were the words of others spewed out by my tongue into the cave and echoing back; believing them to be my own? The rational mind can convince oneself of almost anything. Yet the muses know when to come.
Not all are visited. Not all who think they wish to be visited would say so had they experienced what I've described. 'Tis hard to ignore the muses—for who are you to ignore them? After all, they had billions to choose from yet settled upon a thousand or two. When you stare into the abyss long enough, you realise it is an abyss.
A nothingness—not to be toyed with lightly, no doubt. But at some point you realise the abyss is you; 'tis not out there but within. When the abyss stares back at you, it is oneself looking at oneself. At that moment one realises the abyss is not an entity like a black hole but an inner path that needs to be faced and examined—for this is the only way to illuminate what was once dark.
After staring at it long enough, you face it; when you face it, you illuminate it; when you illuminate it, you see clearly all those parts of yourself you feared or felt ashamed of—sometimes rightly so. Yet the transformative act lies in one's voluntary encounter with that which one least wants to confront.
"To get back up to the shining world from there My guide and I went into that hidden tunnel; And following its path, we took no care To rest, but climbed: he first, then I—so far Through a round aperture I saw appear Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears; Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars."— Dante Alighieri
My modus operandi was facing it; if I was one thing, I was a man who faced it—perhaps not possessing much innate talent or intelligence—but having an ability to confront that which most do not. At some point I stopped doing this. I don't know why; there are many good reasons—but they are irrelevant for now.
How is this connected to the muses? They know whether your inner ruminations match your outer machinations. When there's chaos between inner and outer worlds, they seem to disappear. The closer you return to synthesis between these two worlds, the louder their whispers become once more. Cowardice deafens; no muse shall be amused by a soul whom she realises is playing a ruse—he is both cat and mouse; dog and tail. In circles he spins and spirals deeper into his inferno.
I thank the muses for glimmers of whispers once more—for any halfway good idea I've ever had was theirs; I am merely a vehicle. For millennia great men have said this—so who am I to deny this experience if I've felt what they felt, heard what they heard, and seen what they saw?
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