“One must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche
The true woman is a conqueror... but not in the one-dimensional sense. She understands conventional dominance, but more crucially, she grasps the art of conquest through the seduction of her surrender. Her devotion is a paradox, for on one hand by mere merit of selecting him, she considers herself entitled to him, and her conviction in this sense is only bolstered by her dedication to him by spending herself on him in her growing obsession with him, and yet all the same, crucially: she realises she must earn him.
So in one sense, she believes only she is good enough for him, that she is the best woman for him, and if she is not currently, only she is capable of becoming so, and it is this which is her pride, and yet in another sense, she believes to become worthy of him she must embark on a heroine’s journey, that she must undergo her own process of transformation through her budding love for him where she tentatively unfurls through a most relentless bending and shedding of old skin. She would reconstruct herself to win him, and mark herself with him as she destroys herself to destroy him, and in doing so form the soul tether that would birth their fusion.
She understands the importance of learning, of empathy, and of penetrating a man’s inner world to grasp him in a way others do not, to bend herself, to achieve him, to win him, and ultimately make him hers. Where other women simply think of him in relation to their wants, she works to see beyond herself to see him, and realises that to do so is the proper way to stick out to him. She hates to be perceived by men, and so to allow herself to be perceived by him is already an invitation to him, just as demonstrating her grasp of him proves her worthiness of him as she entices him. Most women would prioritise their dignity, where she prioritises her heart’s true desire - Him.
The ordinary woman knows nothing of pursuing man, because she finds the mere concept insulting - an act she places beneath herself, that she nonetheless expects of him: a demonstration of her implicit contempt for man, in that one could never be so great to her that she would “lower” herself for him to have him. She does not plot, bend, visualise, feel him or taste him, and so she cannot accurately dream of him and thereby devote her heart to him. She simply places herself in his vicinity and makes a little noise with no real skill or thought put into the nature of that noise, as if just any noise will do, and then presumes being noticed is enough to inspire an obsession for her within him greater than the self-obsession that presumed that.
The ordinary woman does not hone her yearning into the blade that serves as the engine for the conquest of her would-be man, because in her fantasies she does not see herself as one who fights for, drives towards and claims her desire, but as the one being desired, so she cannot conceptualise herself as the pursuer, only as the pursued - it is this which renders her spiritually infertile, for she is prideful, cowardly and dare not risk herself, and so seeks to have the power to choose without being vulnerable enough to seek being chosen.
The true woman does not consider herself as solely a receptive doll for ornamentation, but likewise as an active participant with an applied will that can bend both herself and her surroundings in line with her greatest knowing, for irrespective of what is convenient for her or natural to her, it is natural to her to do the unnatural wherever she believes that to be superior - this is part of her greatness. She is an architect, of herself, of him, and of the love they would share - she first dreams the world she would instantiate until it becomes her reality, for she is a summoner, she pursues, she penetrates.
By contrast, the ordinary woman would never have the courage to willingly bare her tenderest desperations to man. She would give up on him and thus give him up should he ignore or reject her, telling herself he does not deserve her - she is not intense or crazy enough in the ways that matter - she lacks the queenliness of the aspirant virgin lover, for how can a woman ever call herself a queen if she does not seek to conquer - do you truly expect a queen to be passive too? No? Then act like her. The ordinary woman is no queen because she is too fragile, and so when reality resists, she yields to it instead of bending it, makes excuses for herself, then excuses herself.
The ordinary woman puts her pride and safety above her dreams, which is why her dreams are forever but mere figments. She is neither a warrior nor a mage, and so she is not a lover and thus no queen: she lacks the alchemy to make the unreal, real, until her lived reality is surreal. And so I implore you to cast her as the anti-role model, my dear woman, for you must dare to conquer, and remember: you must die.