If you could read my mind love, what a tale my thoughts could tell. Just like an old time movie about a ghost from a wishing well. In a castle dark or a fortress strong with chains upon my feet. You know that ghost is me and I will never be set free as long as I’m a ghost that you can see.
“The maenad / bacchante [μαινάδα] translates to ‘raving one’. Clad in fox / fawn skins, crowned with vine leaves, she is in complete union with primeval nature. Often in a state of ecstatic frenzy brought on by intoxication and dance ~ the goal of this was not promiscuity and drunkenness, but rather insight and prophesy. She calls forth milk and honey from the Earth. Fire does not burn her.”—(via riita)
“I would have liked to be able to get inside their skulls, to know them better. And yet, how greatly I appreciated the fact that they did not get into mine. What a painful place it is, this brain of mine, this enclosure of unvoiced words, this dark sanctuary guarded by my temples! There are certain words I could not utter without collapsing. How much better to keep silent. Do we not all find our depth in silence?”—Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt in The Woman with the Bouquet (via drunken-soberness)