Being a lover and a muse are, in many ways, at odds with each other. A lover is known, deeply vulnerable, and fully human, while a muse remains an abstraction, an ideal, a misty mirage just out of reach.
Does intimacy threaten enchantment? Once someone is fully known, can they remain a source of wonder and inspiration?
Perhaps an ideal relationship integrates both through motion and mutual evolution. A dynamic romance. Instead of preserving mystery through distance, mystery arises through growth. After all, no person is ever truly finished.
Maybe love itself is an ever-expanding universe, with new horizons, new seasons, and changing light that colors the landscape differently each day. The beloved remains a muse not because they keep parts of themself hidden, but because they continue to unfold.
I got thousands of rare Cultural Revolution-era photos from a historical archive here in China.
I believe some of these have never been posted online, or only exist behind extremely expensive licenses.
So here they are, for free. Open the thread for more.
Anyone who writes is a seeker. You look at a blank page and you’re seeking. The role is assigned to us and never removed. I think this is an unbelievable blessing.
—Louise Glück, from an interview
The point of friendship is not to collect people as accessories but to encounter portals where you’re both mystified by each other’s infinite otherness. “When two people relate to each other authentically and humanly, God is the electricity that surges between them” (Buber)