Where I Go When the World Goes Quiet
Dear Mystic Lover,
There is a version of me that belongs to daylight—competent, articulate, agreeable enough to pass inspection. And then there is the version that arrives with nightfall. That one does not explain herself.
By night, I take my proper title: muse. Not a metaphor. Not ornament. Muse as in origin. The moon, ever discerning, offers its assent without negotiation. It recognizes stateliness when it encounters it.
I enter darkness with alacrity—not haste, but precision. There is a difference. One rushes. The other knows precisely what is going on. The underworld does not need introductions; it remembers my footfall. We are on familiar terms.
Here, secrets behave differently. They gather without spectacle—stately, unhurried, relieved to set their masks aside. They speak in low registers, poignant with restraint, trusting I won’t force confession where consent will do. There is an etiquette to shadow work. I honor it.
The night allows a particular kind of exuberance—measured, elegant, quietly amused. Power here does not announce itself. It nods. It waits. It understands timing. The omnipotent rarely raise their voices.
I listen until truth volunteers itself. I let meaning ripen. I invite assent rather than extraction. Exposure, I’ve learned, is a crude instrument. Discernment is far more refined.
Some might call this mysticism. I call it literacy. I read what is buried without digging. I curate what must remain veiled. I know which truths prefer daylight and which ones breathe better by candlelight.
There is sass in this stillness. Confid—confidence pause. After enough symbolic deaths, resurrection improves posture—and dramatically sharpens boundaries.
By morning, I return stately and composed, palatable to the visible world. Efficient. Unthreatening. Polished enough to pass through rooms unnoticed.
But at night—
I am muse and medium.
Exuberant yet exacting.
Patient enough to wait.
Omnipotent enough not to prove it.
And if the underworld whispers my name, it is not because I seek it—but because I keep secrets as beautifully as I keep myself.
With quiet power and moonlit clarity,
Sherley Delia
