"She was free in her prison of passion." – Oscar Wilde
Somewhere within me lies a passionate lover.
She has fire in her eyes, wind in her hair. Her beauty is inexplicable, beyond words, beyond melodies, beyond any sort of earthly creation. Her power is infinite, transcending all boundaries, and her passion runs wild, runs free, stretching out into every possible direction. Her heart beats as one with the universe, pumping warm, pulsating lava if she wills it. But at times, black, poisonous liquid. There is something strange and dangerous about her. Clad in a purple dress, she moves among mysterious. Where she goes, women and men stare, unable to keep their curious eyes off her. And for a moment, they are immobilised. Jealousy wells up from deep inside them, for her dagger eyes are set on one, and only one.
She has been lying at the bottom of the sea, asleep for thousands of years. All of a sudden, she is awake, and I can feel her now. She is calling to be saved. All I have to do is hold my breath and plunge into the murky waters.
I can choose to be the woman I have always desired to be.
It is an internal struggle. For to dive is to surrender myself to currents, not the ones I have known all my life, but uncontrollable ones. And to dive is to risk drowning.
So I ask myself, am I willing to free myself? How, and to what length?