Dressed in a white nightgown flowers strewn in her hair: vulnerable, poetic, beautiful and passionate. My name is Ophelia, lush, ripe, fecund and whole. Oozing sensuality, igniting your wildest dreams, beyond your imagination. You are possessed, captivated, cant get enough of her. Every fantasy you ever imagined but tucked away as too wayward, every desire you had but left unarticulated it all seems to be just a touch away. If only you could reach out. She is a vision, delineated yet smudged on the edges.
Isn’t this the type of woman most men are attracted to? The madness and uninhibited passion removed from worldly experience, given up to the most sensual pleasures of the senses and indulging the mind. A woman who reflects back at you exactly what you want. Worships you, adores you makes you feel like a MAN.
Madness however is never far from Ophelia. She worships, only because she expects to be worshipped in return. She lavishes her attention on you because in turn she gets yours. Stewed in her own thoughts, reality is a rude shock. She lives in a cloud floating above the mortal ground. How many fancies can there be, how many flights?
Because the madness is only a refuge that men take from their logical lives. Surrender themselves to magic only to withdraw from it once the sylph asks too many questions. To go back to your lives, touched and bemused not knowing what came over you. To sanity, home hearth and goodness.
Ophelia, poor Ophelia, driven insane by yet another dream that he walked with her only to abruptly leave. Fuelled every desire, answered every wish and then woke up. She is left to her melancholy, the blinding pain and the yawning emptiness.
"mad for thy love?"
ReplyDelete"I know not.."