Her Sweet, Violent Devotion

The devotional violence of the Muse most women can only fantasise about

Please be sure to follow me on my new X/Twitter account: @SovereignIM - the last one was heavily shadowbanned, so I have begun anew.

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“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily. Not to dare is to lose oneself.”
― Søren Kierkegaard

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The Initiation:

If you’re not an initiation event for him, the true man can never fully love you, because, quite simply - you are not enough for him. You will not invoke his all totalising obsession and conscious desire to centre you, revere you, destroy you and rebuild you, merge with you, and love you as if you are the very walking embodiment of the concept to him, because he realises your limitations and finds you wanting. You are not impressive enough to him or trustworthy enough for him, perhaps both.

He can feel affection for you, give you regular attention, like you and desire you, and you will call these things love. But he will never be devoted to you in the all totalising, manic, obsessive way that makes you his reason for being. Where he wishes to cross oceans, climb mountains, and conquer and create for you, in his craving for you, as he carves your name into his bones. You cannot possess the soul of this man without fusing with him, and you cannot fuse with him without initiating him.

If you, as a woman, are not the one he lives for and is willing to die for - then his soul is not yours. And to get his soul, you must give him your own, for you cannot possess a soul you do not merge with. This is not slavery in the exploitative sense, but in the transcendent - each the master of the other in eternal service to the other. Each is the master and each is the slave, because each lives solely to cater to the needs of the other - he to her needs as a woman, and she to his needs as a man - it is a most beautiful symmetry in that there is no orientation higher humans are capable of.

So I suspect you are now asking what exactly it is I mean by initiation? I will describe it to you. I suspect it is novel to you, because the vast majority of women do not think or operate in this way. To initiate a man is to be able to show him a higher version of himself he could not see, then speak to him as if he is already that man and destined to become him, in turn making her the internalised ontological feminine reference point for his desire to become the greatest in service to her. In essence: she must catalyse his soul. She is a portal, and in their resonance, a mirror.

Her devotional capacity is inherent, but dormant until she encounters the man whose presence lights up her inner void. Most women think it is a man’s devotion that inspires hers, that she is solely the reactive principle and never the initiator (and that therefore the burden of greatness does not lie on her) - but she has this backwards. A man’s latent greatness is what inspires a woman’s devotion, but it is a woman’s expressed devotion that inspires a man’s. A woman who lacks devotional capacity, for this reason, can never actually own a man, because she is not hardwired into his self-concept - she is not his muse.

I say latent greatness, but that is not strictly correct. It is more like pre-existing greatness and latent greatness, with the former inspiring the desire to elicit the latter, as a means of “finishing him” and “making him the man he was always meant to be,” as it were. In real terms: most women are far too weak for this. It takes a particularly intelligent woman of intense potency and piety of soul to engage in this sort of reverence.

To own is to merge, and to merge is to become part of the other’s self-concept until the notion of you and the notion of them blur, so you are one and the same yet distinct. This is what marriage is meant to be spiritually, in covenantal form - a coalescing pact of essences where we are so intertwined that the concept of you and the concept of me blur.

This is what an initiation event is: she must be the catalyst for the growth of his soul into the becoming of a more devoted orientation that erodes his ego into a selfless higher register, rather than leave him in a survival-fixated defensive mode that keeps them both small and separate. His greatness inspires the wellspring of her stored love, and that love directed at him opens the floodgates to his very masculine devotion.

When I say his ego is eroded, I do not mean fully eradicated in the general sense. I mean in regards specifically to her. Outside the claim of possession over her in his desire to protect and honour her, he has no selfishness in matters of her. He is not egoless in general, but he is when it comes to her outside his claim over her.

To put this into even simpler terms: her needs come before his and his needs come before hers, and neither of them exploit this. This is hard, if not impossible, when you are terrified, but easy when you are worshipful - and you likely possess a capacity for both.

This is the masculine side of the equation: the man whose soul is seized, reordered and bound. The other half is the woman herself. What kind of woman is capable of initiating this, and then sustaining it without collapsing or retreating into safety?

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Devotion as Conscious Mythologisation:

The muse is spiritually sensitive. Not in the nonsense woo woo sense, but in the perceptive, soul discriminating sense. She can map and intuit his mind with extraordinary accuracy, and in doing so inhabit a type of felt resonance with him. The things he says and the way he speaks sing to her soul, his very articulation, thought structure, rhythm and tonality are like sweet honey to her ears. It is not just what he knows, but the way in which he knows it - the felt texture of his being which is fundamentally wonderful to her, and so she realises “he is the one”, and sets about attacking his soul.

She at first does this through observation. She absorbs him and makes him part of herself, and in doing so, begins the process of giving herself to him. This means rigorous study of him to learn his preferences, views and style of thought, to essentially build an internalised version of him - she builds a palace for him within her. She models him in her interior world, and then converses with “him” - in essence to make him hers, she downloads him, stores him - feeds on him. He becomes a part of her, because she wills it, and it is in running simulations with that ever updating internalised model of him, she can refine her approach in pursuit of him. You see, the muse is a predator. Not in the nefarious sense, but she is a conqueror, and her target is his soul.

The muse is deeply sensitive, reserved, and feminine in her interior, yet ruthless, calculating and driven in her pursuits. She is by no means a normal woman, and nor does she want to be, for she wants the very best life, and so in wanting what most people cannot have, she does what most people cannot do - and she is willing to work herself to the bone to get it. She is a paradox, a true slave, and yet a master all the same. She is not entitled, and yet very much ambitious. She demands nothing and earns everything - and in doing so makes her beloved want to give her his everything, and not due to charm or deception, but in sheer awe of her greatness. She does not demand he yield, she inspires him to. And so the greatness that she sees in him, he too sees in her, for they are, at the soul level - sweet mirrors.

She is a woman very much inclined to hero worship. Not in a general and sycophantic sense, but in a very specific and discriminant sense. Usually by the time you’re an adult, you’ve killed all your childhood heroes (particularly the awe for one’s parents) because you’ve begun to see them for the flawed, mere mortals that they are rather than the absolute titans your less perceptive, less capable child self built them up to be. Your new heroes now, assuming you still have any, are the likely byproduct of exceptional accomplishment (like say an athlete or creative), rather than an intimately mapped soul interior you have fallen in love with out of deep reverence for their being. There are levels to awe. There is “I want to be like this person” and then there is “I know in my soul I belong with this person.” It is of course, the latter to which I refer here.

So there is a type of mythologising, but it is a conscious mythologisation driven by discernment, rather than a naive one born of ignorance or situational need. It is the idea that a certain man is so special, that he and he alone deserves all of her, and is thus above all other men to the point she sees him as more than a man - beyond man - a divine man. She is not primarily drawn to him for material or social reasons - but due to the very depth and shape of his spiritual interior - the unadulterated purity of his being. She sees what others cannot, and in sharing that sight with him joins her to him. You could say in one sense she is an oracle.

She identifies the rare personality traits and embodied archetypes necessary for greatness within him, and rather than simply admire his current state, projects a trajectory for him based on his potential. She sees him mythically, because she has done the forensic work on his soul and found home. She sees how much higher he could ascend if the seeds of greatness within him were amplified by her love, and thus she offers herself as fuel for that trajectory through the pouring of her devotion. She then attempts to fuse herself to him as part of his becoming, and in doing so, becomes a new woman herself - one who loves violently and ferociously, defining herself in relation to him (as his daughter, mother, wife and queen) rather than in relation to her own worldly accomplishments or family. And so he becomes the man he was meant to be in her gaze, as she becomes the woman she longed to be through his. She has come home.

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Devotion as Emotional Porn:

Many women like the idea of devotion as a type of emotional porn or indulged aesthetic, but not as a very real form of personal sacrifice. And so they picture themselves as tragic heroines, the yearning but resolute maiden who waited a thousand lifetimes to cross an immense ocean through tireless rain with dried tears in her eyes, just to fall into his arms and kneel at her beloved’s feet as she swears loyalty beneath a storm-struck sky. They write about it, dream about it, and adorn their inner theatre with scenes of sacrifice and romantic extremity, but for most, this remains little more than a carefully tended fantasy.

In reality, they are not living at the level of intensity and depth of love they imagine, because they cannot even reach, let alone sustain such a voltage. It is aspirational, but not even truly aspirational, more like idle fantasy, because they do not try to embody it in so much as indulge themselves with the feeling of wanting it. It is dreaming, imagining and fantasising for its own sake - the act itself becoming the point, in the catharsis and emotional stimulation it provides, rather than as an inspiration and true call to action to embark on the hero(ine)’s quest.

It takes potency because it takes actual depth of soul from the woman, and not all souls are of equal spiritual potency. Some women are simply more formidable, more capable, more brilliant, more spiritually beautiful in their heart’s purity and more robust than others. Potency here is not just intellect, but also symbolic, abstract pattern recognition that forms a vivid richness of interiority - a sublime inner world of tireless cognition weaving meaning through nuanced hues. It is radical honesty, devotional stamina, a willingness to suffer for greatness, discernment rooted in transcended suffering, real risk-taking propensity and staying power all braided around a core of courage.

This is why her devotion is so violent. It is not violent in the cruel sense, but in the sense of total claim and readiness for war - love to her is spiritual warfare, both against the lowest parts of her, and anything that would take him away from her, including him. She is a fighter, and boy will she fight for him. The muse does not amputate or repress her shadow to become uniformly gentle, nor does she become possessed by it - she integrates it. The aggression, ruthlessness and capacity for destruction she might otherwise turn inward and waste in neurotic self-sabotage, become a sword she wields in service of the bond.

The warrior archetype is truly present within her, her aggression is neither cosplayed nor exaggerated, but truly embodied. She is ferocious, a lioness. Other women both fear her as much as they want to be her. Her love has claws, but they face outward against anything that would desecrate the union, not inward against him. She will thus fight her own fears, her maladaptive conditioning, and even her own family if necessary, because her devotional violence is ordered towards protecting and amplifying her man and the sacred bond that is their shared destiny - and she will let nothing come between them.

She is a woman who, when she feels fear, does not use that fear as justification to “course correct” away from “the project”, nor spiritualise it into an intuition that reframes her prior vows as “mistakes,” but recognises such fear as latent intrusive trauma, or mere emotional weather to be soldiered through. Does that sound like most women to you? It shouldn’t, because it isn’t. The overwhelming majority of women are not capable of this type of love, and I should think those who are probably have one good shot at it once they are wise enough, yet young enough, pure enough and aspirational enough to not have let this world seduce them into wasting themselves, or force them into self-protective cynicism and numbness to cope with its horrors.

Trauma is the destroyer of myriad unlived lifetimes so sublime they touch the divine.

Real fusion-based love demands the utter annihilation of the “independent” identity women egoically construct to survive a world that does not make their deepest, purest feminine selves safe to embody and express. Safety mechanisms which are adaptive to fending off predators when alone, become maladaptively self-sabotaging in matters of true love. Most people in this world choose safety, so when real love asks for this level of fusion, they find the selves they built to endure the world when they were separated to be incompatible with loving in such a pure and grand way. There must be a restructuring, and so they must do unto each other a destruction so complete there can be no return - they must brand each other so vigorously that they become inescapable, forever carrying each other.

Glory and greatness die on the altar of safety, because it requires real risk of annihilation to love in a fused, identity-rewriting way - and almost no women are that brave. Not to say most men are worthy of such self-sacrificing and totalising love either, because in truth - they are not. But the greater sin is not giving this depth of love to a man who is not worthy of it, but failing to give it to one who is.

So potency really is: courage, drive, loyalty to truth and beauty over fear, high-resolution interiority, discernment born of suffering, risk tolerance and staying power funnelled into a most violent devotion. If that sounds mythical, it’s because it is. Which is why this is absolutely not most women. Most would rather light a bunch of candles and play soft music to create a cosy ambience in their apartment, as they run their fingers down themselves and “connect with their feelings.”

There is a whole class of women whose primary orientation is toward self-comfort and emotional self-immersion rather than glory, building and destiny, and such women are simply not capable of loving at the level I am describing. They are neither visionaries, conquerors nor architects, for they are insufficiently warriorlike. This is not to say there is anything inherently wrong with candles and cosiness - these things do indeed have a place - but women of such temperament, with a less intense and less radical and therefore less violent disposition, are not able to love so zealously or so selflessly, for they have become addicted to tending to the fragilities of the self rather than transcending them. They lack that certain intensity - that potency of soul, and so they cannot burn on their own pyre to be born anew and know the taste of sweet soul-merging annihilation. They are too tame in their unwillingness to depart from convention and channel their shadow to take risks and break rules, and they are too fragile, too egoic, too selfish and too self-protecting to risk touching and tasting divinity. The cost is too much for them, and thus the capacity beyond them.

By contrast, the muse in all her sweet, violent devotion is willing to be annihilated. She fantasises about it, schemes towards it, begs for it, and consecrates herself in preparation for it, visualising the very moment she and her beloved become inseparable, intertwined. She lies under the stars with him, her eyes dilating, rapidly taking him in with pure awe, her gaze beginning to penetrate and merge with his, the cosmos reflected in the sheen of his eyes - a world within a world away from the world to the backdrop of worlds distant and many. “I have always loved you, and I always will,” her heart sings as her soul flares and speaks her deepest truth - an immutable vow from the depths of her being, carved into time itself: we are forever.

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