The Whore and the Holy One (cont’d…)

The only thing that keeps me from going back is shame. I wish not to hurt Gustav, nor disappoint him. But I will not lie and say he is the source of my sheepishness; it is my own. The shame is mine. It is that which fractures me from myself; that which gives me pause and forces me to struggle against who I am. 

One minute I am ready to flee Gustav and the hearth and the horses and the goats, and return to the streets and the country sides and my endless wandering; return to dimly lit bedrooms with dark skinned men salivating and seething in their lasciviousness; return to the sailing ports and the battle camps, and the galas; to the faceless customer with pocket full of coin and the promise, within his loins, of some hidden ecstasy. The next minute I wish to retreat to my desk, to my books, to my prayers, and meditations, my altar of crystal and incense, to the sage brush and the lavender smoke, to fine linens, and the love of a man who venerates me, who celebrates me as holy, as goddess, as moon. 

But never shall the two poles of my life greet each other. Never shall they warmly embrace that which both lack. Never shall the whore in me, the wayward slut, wild, sensuous and free, meet the holy one, the innocent maiden, the vestal, solemn and pious. 

I regret only that I will not live to see a world in which I am whole. Rather I feel I must accept this fractured existence and allow myself the space to be broken and yearning, always yearning… for something profound, something exuberant, something more. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s