“This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.”—D.H. Lawrence (via reluctantbuddha) (via dondante) (via featherveins) (via nestofroses)
in the wax leaves made a spell of bones and everything bloomed big and better than before, and beyond the barbed wire, beyond this fence of angry fists there’s a breathing, there’s a breathing underwater. Love the body bending, the useless hair, the when of the skin, the when of the wrist, the witching, the now, the now, the insist.
If the imagined woman makes the real woman seem bare-boned, hardly existent, lacking in gracefullness and intellect and pulchritude, and if you come to realize the imagined woman can only satisfy your imagination, whereas the real woman with all her limitations can often make you feel good, how, in spite of knowing this, does the imagined woman keep getting into your bedroom, and joining you at dinner, why is it that you always bring her along on vacations when the real woman is shopping, or figuring the best way to the museum? And if the real woman
has an imagined man, as she must, someone probably with her at this very moment, in fact doing and saying everything she’s ever wanted, would you want to know that she slips in to her life every day from a secret doorway she’s made for him, that he’s present even when you’re eating your omelette at breakfast, or do you prefer how she goes about the house as she does, as if there were just the two of you? Isn’t her silence, finally, loving? And yours not entirely self-serving? Hasn’t the time come, once again, not to talk about it?
“It is women who bear the race in bloody agony. Suffering is a kind of horror. Blood is a kind of horror. Women are born with horror in their very bloodstream. It is a biological thing.”—Bela Lugosi (via tragicromantic)