To live under the goddess, and all her pretenses, is to submit to the rule of whimsy, of chaos, of inordinate pain, for the goddess knows mercy and knows pain. What are we, those who have faith, but subjects to be buried at her feet, to fester in the sun six feet under, to be drowned in the rain of tears she sheds at our pain, what are we but believers in her eternal love. And as we try to imitate each action of hers, the full moon, the blooming flower, the quivering doe, our words fail our own throats—choking slowly on the impossible task of her grace, forgive me maidens of her name, forgive me sons of her trial. What dreams may come to be as she slowly descends into our hearts as light as a feather of that ever evasive crown of peace. Grant us, on your tender whim, the light of your smile so that we may carry own—pursuing your perfect grace.

sous-le-cerisier:

“Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.” 

 - Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

(via neutralmilkbedsit)