The real descent into ecstasy and pain, I can signify only by love, the purest expression of it. But in someways the love-hate undergone by me, was a fuller image because it integrates the “real and unreal.” Life-flow and death – flow, in single act. The act is emotional. I am never overt about it, whether in my fantasies and consciousness. But I have in mind what it takes to be essential figure of those mysteries behind such torment.
The revelation where love and hate meet, defined by where the shame induced by emotions, burnt-out “death of love and its rebirth“ are difficult to tell separately. I could not define it with any of the mystic language found elsewhere in some books. The burning out of love, which it furthers, cannot be glibly equated with “appalling mysteries beyond emotional faculties“.
Often, I feel it seems more like a final therapeutic purging brought on by excessive emotional longings and sensualities and self-acceptance. Would it be shameful? The shame may die but not the woman within me, I will never be hit from the smitten rock of a man's body, from the marvelous flanks and thighs, even deeper further in mystery of their emotional cruelty. But I must admit that a man's love and touch are “more wonderful than life itself“ nonetheless. I have to force myself to make a better logic of it. The truth that a man can be ridiculous, affectionate, brute, compelling, he can transform me by genital love, but not with sexual superiority, even involving all the erogenous zones, which most sex manual composed.
As myself, I am finally able to accept my fears and urges, without being beleaguered or destroyed by emotional terrors. My inmost self, to received and survive with hidden wounds my emotional identity.
One day I would be scourged and healed, liberated and strengthened by time. I will never be indulge with fears of tenderness within me, to become unabashed, unrestrained. I am trudging on a rock-strewn road sometimes though I feel the raptness abstracted from my convictions, of exclusive righteousness and emanations of autonomy and pride. For me, there’s a little difference between a man's integrating and disintegrating characters because after all, disintegration is lovely when it is not horrible, vital to renewal when it is not deadly. My emotional renewal would not be dependent by any character, for I will never achieved it. For those characters are just a glimpse of the wholeness that I aspire.
The renewal that I aspire perhaps, necessary and impossible to achieve, disparaging for some and redemptive for others. I need to glimpse incessantly and never realized it. Such “a peekaboo” tragic emotional death in the spur of the moment, I would almost wanted to cry. But in my stubborn moralistic hopefulness I will ask instead another question. Just how impossible are these paradoxes?
Perhaps it is the mind I have to liberate from the terrors of my thoughts. I should elucidate opposing flows and dispel confusions. Allowing the mystique of emotional corruption approach me like an innate function, that in every death of love, any moment just with a push button it can rouse into life again. Young and unused from a slumber, and will restore once again, my life-trust.
The revelation where love and hate meet, defined by where the shame induced by emotions, burnt-out “death of love and its rebirth“ are difficult to tell separately. I could not define it with any of the mystic language found elsewhere in some books. The burning out of love, which it furthers, cannot be glibly equated with “appalling mysteries beyond emotional faculties“.
Often, I feel it seems more like a final therapeutic purging brought on by excessive emotional longings and sensualities and self-acceptance. Would it be shameful? The shame may die but not the woman within me, I will never be hit from the smitten rock of a man's body, from the marvelous flanks and thighs, even deeper further in mystery of their emotional cruelty. But I must admit that a man's love and touch are “more wonderful than life itself“ nonetheless. I have to force myself to make a better logic of it. The truth that a man can be ridiculous, affectionate, brute, compelling, he can transform me by genital love, but not with sexual superiority, even involving all the erogenous zones, which most sex manual composed.
As myself, I am finally able to accept my fears and urges, without being beleaguered or destroyed by emotional terrors. My inmost self, to received and survive with hidden wounds my emotional identity.
One day I would be scourged and healed, liberated and strengthened by time. I will never be indulge with fears of tenderness within me, to become unabashed, unrestrained. I am trudging on a rock-strewn road sometimes though I feel the raptness abstracted from my convictions, of exclusive righteousness and emanations of autonomy and pride. For me, there’s a little difference between a man's integrating and disintegrating characters because after all, disintegration is lovely when it is not horrible, vital to renewal when it is not deadly. My emotional renewal would not be dependent by any character, for I will never achieved it. For those characters are just a glimpse of the wholeness that I aspire.
The renewal that I aspire perhaps, necessary and impossible to achieve, disparaging for some and redemptive for others. I need to glimpse incessantly and never realized it. Such “a peekaboo” tragic emotional death in the spur of the moment, I would almost wanted to cry. But in my stubborn moralistic hopefulness I will ask instead another question. Just how impossible are these paradoxes?
Perhaps it is the mind I have to liberate from the terrors of my thoughts. I should elucidate opposing flows and dispel confusions. Allowing the mystique of emotional corruption approach me like an innate function, that in every death of love, any moment just with a push button it can rouse into life again. Young and unused from a slumber, and will restore once again, my life-trust.
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