Woman was born to serve as the connecting link between man & his Highest Self, a stairway to divinity & self-actualization. Man, to create, must master his outer world. However, a woman must penetrate deeper into her inner world, into her own womb, even. Her third eye. Her deepest source of power feels like forbidden fruit. She must create something entirely unique & feminine.
For masculinity created a world of structure, systems, blueprints, mechanical, explicit rules, linear boxes of strength — A society cut off from nature & unseen realms, new planets. It becomes a bore. And so, a woman has to create a world of mystery, typhoons, terrors, infernos of emotion, desire, lust, whims, caprices, hunger, flavor, rhythms, intensities, to challenge his formidable structure — Neurotic, sensual, destructive, fiery, perilous lava, inflammable & unrestrained. A certain savoir-faire. Paradigm shift. Mystique. Reflecting the zeitgeist of the times & The New Future. Utopia.
So, before style became something we regurgitated from the internet screens, we took our inspiration from a different class entirely. Muses: Once the arbiters of unique, distinguishable style, now fading into the blur of boundless access, where distinction vanishes, as abundance strips away exclusivity & desire. Modern living rarely creates a woman of true depth, flavors & layered substance like a flakey croissant hidden in an secret orangerie, gated by moats of turquoise crystal rivers.
Locked in her tower, left alone to her oracle-like visions, healing, prophecy & her art. The very essence of a magical muse lies in her ability to disconnect from the masses & live amongst her natural essence, untouched from the chaos of the world — She is intelligent, yet blissfully unaware of the realities of the trenches. Therefore, the allure of a vintage muse is palpable in her ability to extrapolate nuance, to read minds across the ether & connect the dots with her words, cadence, grace, song & dance.
Often, it is a portrait she pants that speaks a thousand words, something primal, for language is a new invention, of the intellect & the feminine operates primarily from the instinct, like an emotional animal — Ancient. Moreover, the depth of her prose & her elusive, sometimes intentional silence — is far more eloquent than than her speech. Because it’s ever about what you see — It’s about what you don’t see. To embody the essence of discrète, esotérique & impalpable requires a certain calculated restraint, measured maturity, ruthless editing of life, to truly feel something with your heart & soul, which can only come to full fruition when you:
Slow.
Down.
It is the pace that is so attractive. Never rushed, never hurried, messy, always silky smooth velvet — a master of time. It is the lingering, unhurried whispers of wonder, because really — what’s the rush?
Easily intellectualized, but not so easily viscerally integrated. Almost a challenge for those who possess high-energy, curiosity, intensity & move with the ferocity of la féline.
Sometimes, operating at 100mph means you look, but you do not See.
Sometimes our own excitement, passion & audacity becomes our own demise, when left uncontrolled & unchecked. In trading our delicate voice for sloppy, hurried results, we also lose our self-respect & foundational structure too. Luckily, one can always be reborn even more noble from the ashes of naïve blunders.
The real muse, slightly out of reach, possessing a discernible air of mystère that renders her unknowable, reveals only a fraction of the Truth. An enigmatic half smile, without artifice, without faking a laugh & soothing wounds for societal niceties in the guise of intellect. She simply has other things to do. Can. you. not. see. She is not here to soothe. She is here to summon. Her sudden storms feel electric, a joie de vivre that comes from knowing exactly who you are: Raw, natural, untamed — & who you are not: Overly manicured, put inside a box. The elegance of nature is that of a contortionist branches weaving into unknown crevices, stretching to new heights, flowers blossoming from the concrete.
The elegance of a kitty in the wild, who freezes when she sees you, but carries on. She is slinky, oozing out of any box, dancing on kaleidoscopes & galaxies not from this earth. Isn’t that the fascination? Of the creature that cannot be caught, or put into a cage? The charm is the thing you cannot put into words. Intrinsic by nature, sculpted by Time, experience & relentless pursuit of excellence, contrasted with the audacity to not really care.
Why else are older women so much sexier? The biblical bangers they drop from time to time & you almost miss them because they were so blasé & covert, they glazed past decades of your past, present & future with effortlessness. Moreover, a true femme muse is unlike any male muse. For the woman was born mother, mistress, wife, sister, born to represent union, communion, communication, she was born to bring to life the unseen — The dream, not objectivity. The sparkle, not the structure. The raw impulse, not the instruction. The unpredictability, not the blueprint. The mayhem, not the method. The magic, not the mind. The stardust, not the science. The essence, not the engineering. The poetry, not the perfection.
A femme muse’s aura & existence must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, theatrics, shenanigans, good drama, jealousy, envy, foreign travel, ancient lore, fantasies, wine, all the spices of fear & love, new facades, dancing & drugs — All the things man does not understand, yet so desperately desires to taste. How else will you connect with the Divine? It is the very reason a man is drawn to sensual curves, the hourglass body & her hidden recesses. For he is daylight, linear, predictable & she is twilight labyrinthine. The desire to penetrate her world goes beyond the physical, into the emotional, its final destination — Spiritual.
The contrast & paradoxical nature of light & dark, smooth & sharp, because those are the very things he does not possess, in his angularity, surgical precision & mechanical psyche. She is the devotional garden, while he is the disciplined engine. And so, a muse reflects the most potent paradise — Possibility. The unimaginable.
She is the silver thread linking a synthetic masculine world of a man’s warlord rigidity to the crystalline structure of nature’s sparkle, shine, mercurial & lethal destruction. Her art, style & movements must be that of a miracle. Nourishing cocoon of fairy dust & suddenly, a roaring tropical summer rain. Or the icy frost of a winter’s indifference, gothic & cold. Gradual, sustainable, grounded, forgiving & yet potent. Spontaneous. Improvising, like jazz. Instantaneous, like lightening.
The wisdom of a 100 year tortoise, the delicateness of a baby rabbit & the killer instincts of la tigresa, who may lose control if you don’t feed her. She cannot help it.
The muse is coveted as Lady Luck, for she is the living pulse of infinite consciousness in the present moment. In her aura is the potential of a child & the erotic, tender, whispered reveries of a woman, in her orphic beauty & madness too.
Her essence feels like:
Moonlit walks through forbidden cities that whisper secrets in foreign tongues.
The feeling of coming home, but in a new land.
The ache of poetry written in a lover’s absence, ink-stained fingertips tracing nostalgia, a fragrance too familiar.
The slow unraveling of silk ribbons & whispered confessions at dawn after a midnight motorcycle rendesvouz.
A closet of contradictions — delicate black noir lace & buttery leather, innocence & defiance stitched into a fur coat & rosy silk lingerie.
Handwritten letters left behind in hotel drawers, never meant to be read, like siphoning your most insane thoughts into the ether hoping you are free from the madness & ghosts, at last.
The glint of a slim cigarette held between glossy lips, exhaling both pleasure & discontent.
Hungry for more. Was that it? Echoes of unfinished symphonies & the scent of old books in dimly lit, strange libraries with 113 levels so I need a ladder to navigate & find the answers.
There is no librarian. It is only you & me.
The quiet power of an unreadable gaze, an assassin smiling at another assassin, I swear to God we’re gonna get it rightttt if you lay your weapon down.
Moments of divine chaos — Silver Manolos in hand, pouring rain, running barefoot through wet pavement, crashing into the ocean under the full moon. I don’t care if anyone sees.
The taste of salt from ocean air, of tears kissed while tracing your scars, of hands grasping for you at night, my hair slipping between your fingers. The thrill of stolen glances in candlelit rooms, the heat of desire that only gets hotter by acknowledging it doesn’t exist.
New levels unlocking in a game only she knows the rules to. Reckless wagers of the kitty, champagne spilled on the Persian rug, a bet placed on a lover’s devotion.
Jordan Baker’s style.
The sharp sting of a nuked goodbye, knowing she’ll be worshiped in absence more than in presence. Oops.
A heart that loves like a tempest & vanishes like a ghost, leaving only a scent, an immortalizing story — a legendary myth, like all the deities that walked the earth before her, shapeshifters. A muse is not simply seen, nor captured.
She is felt, chased & remembered long after she is gone.
Simply put, she colors the world with beauty, mind-blowing magic & Love.
It's always love.
Her entire existence is a love letter, dedicated to God.
We could all become influencers. However, very few of us, if any, will ever become muses — our innate way of merely existing that inspires & rocks the worlds of writers, artists, rock stars, designers. Isn’t that the ultimate goal?
For why else were we given this feminine human existence?
Muse meets Muse. Heroine meets Hero. Charlatan meets Saint. Alchemist meets Catalyst. Siren meets Sailor. Scholar meets Madman. Steel meeting steel. Fire kindling fire. A writer meets Producer. Monarch meets Revolutionary.
They do not complete each other — they challenge, sharpen & push each other toward a greater myth unfolding right before our very eyes. When a muse encounters another muse, it is not mere attraction — it is ignition.
A meeting of kindred spirits who move through the world as living poetry, their very essence shaping the currents of culture, beauty & thought. They do not mimic — they embody.
Their presence & energy alone stirs creation, weaving art into existence through the effortless magnetism of their being. A rare meeting of the minds. Together, they are an ouroboros of inspiration — each reflecting & amplifying the other in an endless cycle of reinvention.
Ohhh, how God has such a funny sense of humor.
La Femme Mystíqa xx