The curse of the poet is to be deeply attuned to every possible version of herself. The version that could bring a man to his knees with the ache of desire, and the version whose eyes perpetually shy away from meeting anyone else’s for fear of inflaming them. The version that is palpably aware of how easy it would be to lose herself in the wanton pursuit of passion, and the version who craves nothing more than to turn away from fleeting pleasures for the joy of her Beloved.
She is both innocent and wild, light and shadow, rebellious and submissive; deeply self-restrained, yet periodically consumed by phases of unrestrained curiosity. Her heart softens for everyone, but opens for few. She doesn’t yield to temptation, yet can’t deny its secret hold over her. But she does not desire to be desired for the sake of desire itself- her heart is moved only by the ecstasy of pure, unrelenting ‘ishq, the native rhythm of her intoxicated soul.
x r
Lilac Muse 