A mystic is a wild creature.
She is made. She is deliberately forged by something mysterious. She is created for a purpose. She spends all her life seeking, for there is nothing else worth doing. She peers and gazes until she falls from the edge of the world, and into the next. Over and over.
Each time she returns, she is a little different. What she sees must change her. She dies every day. She is reborn in every moment. Can you even begin to fathom the terror and the faith commanded from such a being? Can you even begin to understand what such a life can do?
Don’t date a mystic, if you want the life you have. If you are comfortable and cozy, stay away. Whatever you have built around yourself to create comfort: it cannot stand in the blazing fire of a mystical woman. She is no trophy. She is no bodily pleasure-maker. She is the seer of souls.
She is the womb that births the divine into the flesh and bone of matter.
She doesn’t mean to burn your village to the ground, but she has seen what you are meant to become. You are not a peasant shearing sheep, as you have thought. You are a king dressed in rags who has amnesia.
It is her assumption that you have come to be reborn. If you haven’t, turn back now, while the world you know still exists.