that search for the ideal I … lurking in shadows and searching relentlessly. she had seen the days of writing letters that took weeks to receive and be received, the odd dialing of a phone number through several operators and then hearing the voice of urgency. she licked her lips in anticipation and it never disappointed; the heavy breathing and a heart that sank and resurfaced. if a man could be summed up in one word it would be desire. the voluptuous need to have at once the woman the mother, the wolf all in one and then to sink into the skin and further into the bottomless pit of this woman who could hold everything for him. she knew it before jung or lacan had spoken of it. perhaps sabina taught jung this lesson in her madness and his obsession to have her. no one knows of the archetypal wolf -woman, not even a full moon , except other women. we walk in packs and inspire in spirit the essential, sensual, powerful magical I … she traced the skin of the old letters and smiled. no one could love her as she loved. she had burned herself for the ideal, for the perfect reciprocity of a lover and had found ashes. choosing is not an option in this journey. choices are for mediocre mortals. jung would have been disappointed at what has been made of dreams and dreamers. dreams are for the wild who nurture their womb and protect their pack. dreamers do not wait for the ideal time or a better place or even soon … they are now or else they wither. if you stub their growth they will leave you for your own good.
the ideal I is within not without, she smiled as she paused at the book she had given him but not signed as he could not keep it with him and in the end she mildly just forgot to give it to him when he was leaving. dishonoured she placed it on her own shelf.
the wind rustled its chanting outside her window as she turned the lights out. the moon was its immaculate fullness and the night awaited her lovemaking. in the whiteness of her room the quietude echoed
dyaar e Noor mein veeran shaboan ka saathi ho
koi toh ho jo meri wehshatoan la saath ho
tina sani must be making love to the sur and taal of her own desires and somehere a wolf is being born…
mein us ke haath na aaoon woh mera ho k rahe
ideal I is me is you is us. when the storm ends there is the beauty of wreckage left for us to begin anew. no one knows why the lone wolf cries but the wolf knows it is a cry of freedom. shackles never make a good lover.
~ esprit fort
Dee is from Lahore, Pakistan. Loves dark nights and old trees.