If the Devil appeared as a white goddess, men would enslave themselves to the Dark Lord. He has already claimed his spot upon the throne of humanity in the visage of a woman, and men have shackled themselves for a taste of her rose-colored lips. A whiff of her essence will last him forever. She will live and grow organically in his imagination, so that he sees her dented impression upon his cold bed, or her frosted breath upon windowpane; golden wheat will be mistaken for her curls, and the dewy grass for her eyes; this is the irrational fervor that gripped painters and sculptors in a romantic mania—those driven by insanity to recapture the beauty which they had seen even if for only a wink.
The woman inhabits a symbolic role in their lives. She is the Mediterranean that smiles with sunlight, even though in her cold, dark depths lies a tomb for sailors. Along the hillocks, she is the verdant forest that whispers—that too conceals predators. Man's attempt to tame nature is thus an internalized sexual desire to force the Earth to be his bride. Until then, men must content themselves with her offspring.
Women are the teardrops of her, that sprout upon the grass like flowers and are then plucked so that men may admire their beauty more closely. But in this exchange of admiration is the female's death, for she cannot contradict the man's fantasy. This is why a woman's value is front-loaded in her existence; all her most desirable traits are magnified in youth and deteriorate quickly as she ages. That short interval when the flower blooms is a time of celebration and upon which man's desire finds an outlet.
If girls sprout from golden tears, then it is man's sacrificial blood that nurtures them. It is the very same energy that has been channeled into the grandest amphitheaters and gleaming armies. They have erected vast walls to protect them, dug and died in trenches to preserve, and traded life and limb for the female. She is sheltered within the confines of the home so that her beauty may transcend to a spiritual height. What he fears most is her rape; that is the cruelest violation, just as trampling in the rose garden.
There is a heavy trade-off for being a flower; it means she has no other choice but to fit within the confines of that definition. If she were to stray away from the ideal, she would be labeled as "whore, witch," or other invectives. More precisely, she is a weed. Out of survival, it is therefore necessary for her to absorb his wants, even if it overflows her cup. Procreation is the symbolic representation of this overflowing—when a woman has been so infused by male need that she bears offspring to continue this fantasy.
A woman's aging, accelerated by childbirth, may be seen as her feminine energy being exhausted by male demand. Once the flower wilts, it is tossed onto the ground where it becomes fertilizer for other flowers—these are her children. She weeps because her beauty is gone—good! What else will water the seedlings?
Men honor wives and mothers, and so their old age isn't entirely despised. An older woman undergoes a metamorphosis—her beauty shifts from fertility to quiet dignity. It can be argued that such dignity is more valuable than youthful beauty because one woman can bring forth many flowers. This is why sons and husbands are so tender toward their matriarch: she is the Earth.
So captivated by the beauty, men have turned the white marble upon which women recline pink with their sacrificial blood. To honor and revere achievement is a necessary condition, and so, to build monuments of women in our hearts is not necessarily evil. It is a way to honor the natural cycle of earth—that is, to live, to die, and leave something behind.
This harmonious relationship between the male and his desire for beauty is essential to the longevity of civilization, because women serve another crucial aspect in the continuance of the race. It isn't beauty or fertility but something far greater. They once contained a spark that could be seen in their blue or green eyes; it was the same sparkle of the Mediterranean, and their kisses were once soft and cool like early-morning grass. Even the act of sex felt like returning to something ancient and necessary, or perhaps even, as Albert Camus said, returning to the Earth. Such women are the bridge between men and Earth—without them, men lose their connection to spirituality. The act of sex is nature's way of rewarding the man, of speaking sincerely into his soul. It is only through this act that a man can truly appreciate his connection to something so good that it becomes painfully delightful. This is the holy union that God had imagined for man and woman.
The Earth connection facilitated by these pure women catalyzes a shift: men are emboldened by the electrifying touch of their lovers. Their ambition becomes sharper and more precise; it is no longer a vain, political ambition but one rooted in family, legacy, and honor. A woman's love provides the condition for a man to be more communal and caring of his neighbor. When a man is deprived of such necessities, he becomes bitter, and his ambition becomes one of revenge rather than altruism.
The balance between love and worship is not easy to maintain. The same smiling Mediterranean, if loved to the extreme, can drown. The beautiful sight of a mountain may be cracked by the violent explosion of Olympus. Strawberries and cherries may be found within the verdant forests, but her shadows may conceal the Wolf. When it comes to beauty, caution must be exercised, just as a man may not gorge himself on food to the point of death, so too must he limit his access to sexual fulfillment.
The death of gratitude is the beginning of idolatry. When a man worships food but does not give thanks to the farmer or to God, when a man enjoys the luxury of his house but does not remember all those involved in its construction, that is when appreciation deteriorates into lazy hedonism. It is the same for women: it is easy to take from the willing receptacle of male desire without giving anything in return. She is the daughter of Earth and of God. When that connection is forgotten, the daughter becomes a symbol of worship since she remains the sole source of man's delight. All good and pleasure emanate from her—and so she controls the supply. That is a dangerous thought because it imbues her with the power of Earth and of God. To do so is doubly pernicious because the woman begins to believe that—being the most beautiful—she is the most good and may wield her power as she deems morally necessary.
Those monuments that men constructed in honor of women now begin to overshadow God Himself. Once that process is complete, man's devotion and obligation to a higher power is transferred to the woman. Even before this, her cup was overflowing with man's rapacious needs; this is why so many sculptures, paintings, and legends were made in her honor. His love for her is so vast and she so insufficient, that he must express himself through extraordinary acts of sacrifice or art. Now that his divine creative energy and intellect are focused solely on the woman, she is not only overfilled but eviscerated by the obsessive compulsion for her.
This obsession is akin to drowning oneself in the Mediterranean or devouring a flower because it is too beautiful. The woman is destroyed because her vessel for containing the male spirit is only so large. She must then either reject the male or release his energy in non-feminine ways. If she were to reject his advances, he would be killed symbolically; all of society, after all, was made for her benefit. Those murals and statues, the ballads and amphitheaters, aqueducts and walls, were all created as a testament of man's love and desire to protect the rose garden and what he cherishes most. He may respond with either hate or increased devotion. In either scenario, he is not the same thereafter, nor is she.
While men demand women to achieve the ideal, they themselves—in their supplicatory nature—have fallen from the ideal man. He is meant to strike a balance between love and worship by honoring his divine obligations. He is intended to cultivate gratitude to God. Instead, he has—against her permission—made her into a goddess. What else is she to do, then? She must inhabit the role of servant so that she may catalyze, with her feminine spark, man's ambition. He is the one imbued by God with the greater capacity for creativity, spirituality, and intellect. Yet he devotes his entire existence to pleasing one woman rather than advancing his community? This "man" is a grotesque, weak version of himself. He is unworthy of the feminine spark.
Civilization stalls when men no longer demand more of themselves. When they find contentment in the bosom of a woman and no longer plot courses deep into the future, then what is the point of the feminine to begin with? A man must exist through a woman and not in her. She is there for nourishment, just as a creek replenishes the weary traveler.
Men have made women the destination of humanity. This not only insults the philosophy of womanhood but is a losing proposition for society. It is then only natural for women to rebel against men if they no longer act in accordance with the rules of nature: that is, one of survival and progress; women expect men to harness the power of the heavens, not chase the twinkles in their eyes. They remove the tit because they don't want to nurse the depraved.
This sexual deification leads to an environment ripe for the Devil—not in the theological sense but in the symbolic one; the Devil here represents the antithesis of humanity. He is decay, rot, and damnation. He has not even lifted a finger. Men have damned themselves.
As women continue to uglify themselves in an attempt to thwart unwanted male attention, fewer emeralds remain, compounding the problem. The few good, beautiful women left are relentlessly hounded, increasingly worshiped. They will demand a good man of themselves, and the idiots will clamor: but I am good! Look at what I have built for thee! She wants to say, "I want to be loved but not worshiped." But she says this while standing in the shadow of the temple of Venus, or the statues of Aphrodite.
When only a few beautiful women remain, they will wield humanity like a large fist. As they point, men will flock. As they demand, men will serve. Men will continue to excavate their own souls and give incessantly upon sexual thrones. The women will hate them for it. Yet, it was never about them. It was about male lust and their inability to control it. The fantasy of the women and the desire become more real than the women themselves. It is hard to say what will occur first: whether women will reach genetic perfection or if male fantasy will outpace their beauty. The destination, however, is not clouded in mystery; men will return to the womb at the expense of all else.
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