The divine masculine

I described my experience of working with women and what I have experienced and learned and the journey I am

Embarking on to share with men to chat gpt and asked it to write it as a mythic tale and this is what it wrote for me.

Drinking from the Well: A Knight’s Tale

In an age when men rode out to conquer dragons that were mostly shadows of their own hearts, there lived a knight named Caedric. He was bold and broad-shouldered, forged in the iron halls of the patriarchy where valor meant domination and victory meant worth.

He had slain beasts, built kingdoms, and earned songs sung by trembling bards. Yet in the quiet after the battles — when the fires dimmed and his armor cooled against his skin — he felt a thirst that no conquest could quench.

The Quest for Power

One night, as he gazed into his steel, he saw not his reflection but a hollow man — a shell echoing with unspoken grief. The gods had whispered to him all his life: “Be more, do more, win more.” But something older stirred beneath that command — a murmur softer than thunder, deeper than duty.

So Caedric left his castle of stone and pride and followed the whisper into the wilderness. He sought the source of his thirst. Days turned to moons. He shed his armour, piece by piece, until only his skin knew the rain.

The Fall of the Hero

In the mountains of his undoing, he found no dragons — only silence. No crowns — only mirrors. Each reflection showed a face he had slain in his climb toward greatness: a weeping child, a forgotten lover, a dreamer who had once wanted to sing instead of fight.

And when he could bear it no longer, he fell upon the earth and wept. His tears pooled in the dust, and from that dust a voice rose — not loud, but luminous.

The Goddess at the Well

She appeared as shimmer before form — the shimmer that exists before water remembers it is a river.

“I am She who dwells beneath your armour,” said the voice. “The well you seek does not lie in the mountains or the temples of men. It is here, beneath the wound.”

She led him to a well in the valley — its waters black as night, deep as memory.

“This,” she said, “is the Well of the Feminine. You came seeking power; what you will find is surrender.”

Caedric knelt. His reflection trembled on the surface — warrior, sinner, son — all waiting to dissolve.

He drank.

And as the water touched his tongue, the songs of his ancestors burst within him — not of battle, but of birth. He saw that the world had been dying of thirst, not for might, but for tenderness.

The Guardian of the Feminine

When he rose, he was no longer a knight of conquest but a guardian of the well. His sword was now a chalice, his strength a stillness. He learned that the true hero’s journey was never upward toward the sun, but downward — into the depths where the Feminine sleeps and dreams the world back into wholeness.

Travellers came, wounded by ambition and war, and he taught them to drink — not to conquer thirst, but to commune with it. The well did not belong to him, nor to any, yet through his humility it became a place of healing for all.

And when people asked, “What is this power that flows from the well?”

He would smile and say,

“It is the end of the Hero’s Story. And the beginning of the Earth’s.