Woman, you belong to the night. You have blood on your thighs and furze in your hair. You smell of loamy fertile soil. Your breasts give life, your sex is a mystery school leading to the holy of holies. Turn your eyes inward. Use owls’ vision to see where you come from. Slip beneath the surface, and feel yourself become full. Make a marriage to the moon. Divorce the false gods of intellect and reason. Find meaning in your dreams. And in the secrets of your body. Follow no authority - but your own true nature. Make a sacred fire. And throw on it all that you would use to harm yourself. Make kindling from shame. Let your dance be wild. Your voice be honest. And your heart untamed. Be cyclical. Don’t make sense. Initiate yourself. Initiate yourself.
Aisha Wolfe (via cosmofilius)
