A mystic is a wild creature.
She is made. She is deliberately forged by something mysterious. She is created for a purpose. She spends all her life seeking, for there is nothing else worth doing. She peers and gazes until she falls from the edge of the world, and into the next. Over and over.
Each time she returns, she is a little different. What she sees must change her. She dies every day. She is reborn in every moment. Can you even begin to fathom the terror and the faith commanded from such a being? Can you even begin to understand what such a life can do?
Don’t date a mystic, if you want the life you have. If you are comfortable and cozy, stay away. Whatever you have built around yourself to create comfort: it cannot stand in the blazing fire of a mystical woman. She is no trophy. She is no bodily pleasure-maker. She is the seer of souls.
She is the womb that births the divine into the flesh and bone of matter.
She doesn’t mean to burn your village to the ground, but she has seen what you are meant to become. You are not a peasant shearing sheep, as you have thought. You are a king dressed in rags who has amnesia.
It is her assumption that you have come to be reborn. If you haven’t, turn back now, while the world you know still exists.
If she touches you, and all the voices on the wind go silent, if you feel you are in a snow globe when you embrace her, she is your destroyer. She will destroy the false idol you see in the mirror. She will smash it open because it is your prison. If you wish to stay there, she will shatter you another way. She will leave.
A mystic may not for long engage with that which is too small for her, unless she is nurturing a seedling into its destiny. But the seed must be capable of fulfilling its own potential.
Everybody wants the magic, but nobody wants the Mystery, the schooling: a thing that must be lived in a place where book knowledge has no meaning, for all books are manuals to the world you already know. That means, the well-honed intellect — the masculine theory of reason — will not save you, cannot free you. It is for a world whose time is over.
The Mystery, by its very nature, must show you what has never been seen, never been written, never been known, because before you were forged, it was impossible. The arts of women have been called the dark arts for too long, and they are the keys to infinity. Infinite form. Infinite being. Infinite life.
The art of far sight.
The art of inner knowing.
The art of sign-reading.
The art of deep feeling.
The art of song and circles.
The art of intuition.
The art of frequency translation.
The healing arts.
The art of kitchen witchery.
The art of communion.
The art of sacred story weaving.
The art of creation and manifestation.
And others too wild to name.
If your dreams are not filled with the Mystery, you are better off with a normal girl, because a mystic will see things that are invisible to you. She will feel things that you cannot feel beneath the layers of numbness you have wrapped yourself in.
She will call upon your true self, your real soul, and she will sing it down into you, into herself, and life will never be the same.