She turns exhausted
Black streaks face me
I am struck by heavy
Fears. Unmade, dizzy.
She threatens words
But unchains me
Love, pain, pity
take her to bed.
She turns exhausted
Black streaks face me
I am struck by heavy
Fears. Unmade, dizzy.
She threatens words
But unchains me
Love, pain, pity
take her to bed.
Sadness is coloured purple. The purple is soft like velvet and silvery, and it hangs heavy there. I find it with my eyes, find there the weight of it, the feel of it, the way it breathes. I see it in his blue eyes, they stare, and I am there. Reflect me yet again, I am reborn in pain within those staring eyes. And I am gone when they close and look away, to stare, for he turns inward to his own mind and sees yet another version of me, the one which ticks mechanical, which speaks a color over my parts and makes and unmakes me. I am segregated within myself within his mind behind his eyes. I am apart, yet whole in outline, only in outline, and the rest of me pools into colored segments which only make sense to him.
I sense purple within my own mind’s eyes, when I close my eyes and think of him on the off chance. I see his purple shirt which he wore today, and I see the way all the times I have seen him before coalesce into the single being I imagine him to be. I see the way purple colours the scene, the whole scene, separate and apart a thing then coloured, separate and apart a thing we see. The purple rather is my mind’s interpretation of a sense which makes none, and is feather-light, and oft and almost imaginary.
He asks me questions and don’t ask me what was said, or what he asked, or my answer for I don’t remember. In fact I forgot even as he said it. I forgot before he said it. I forgot timeless ages ago. I never know, and when he asks and I answer I see I make no sense and neither does he, for we speak the same language but hear different meanings, and I am forever stuck in translation, in inability. He asks and I try, but my mind merely scatters in a million directions all desperate to run away, and when I latch on to something solid he bats it away, from me, and I am scattered once again.
It is like a cage, this room, but not for my body, or my sense of freedom, or my mind. It is like a cage for my fear. Let it run itself out inside here, let it exhaust itself chasing its own tail and howling at the moon; the invisible, elusive, ephemeral moon, lazy and unchanged, illusion, disillusion, personified. It is like a place for my fear to exist in the here-time, and I am lost within the storm of What-Is-But-Never-Manifests, until it fills this cage with it’s trembling carriage and oscillates wildly inside my mind. My mind separates, and I am purple, and I am the storm, and I am, I become them, the separate parts of me. And I am all I was, there, at that point I’m time. And he directs me, behind his eyes, directs and pigeon holes me, neat little boxes in which parts of me reach out between slammed lids. And I am purple no more, once again I am me and we are me and he and I am free. I breathe.
I feel the purple calm as we draw to a close, the purple dissipates into ether and then dream, the silence fills with reality, the space it once was fills with noise and emotions more real than the ones which are. And I fall back to myself, back to the one I want to be, a nice kind generous me, which offers comfort that I would have myself but is never for me. And then I leave and I am safe again.
This was a very clear message.
I’m in this mindset where I’ve focused myself back into fear. I am rather unsure how to break out of it. Apathy seems more comfortable than feeling good. Feeling good seems false and draining and forced. Like I am creating happiness simply to avoid the sad depths. I fear my subconscious. I fear myself going mad. These realizations make sense over and over and over again. I keep getting these bright spots of awakening and illuminations. Then I fall back into a darkness. I am tired of fear. And I’m tired of fighting and struggle. I am simply tired. Feeling good seems like so much effort. Fear is exhausting too. So I exhaust myself trying to deal with everything. And the real world sit outside all these thoughts knowing nothing of what I deal with. And I feel, almost a contempt, but more certainly a desire to escape.
I thought the purpose of being here was love. But repetitive meditations have shown, beyond everything even love disappears. It becomes completely unnecessary. And having to convince myself what I’ve held onto this whole time, that love is the reason we exist, seems false now too. A belief system.
I don’t want this, the idea that truth is whatever I make of it. That love and all emotions are just …. Tools. I don’t want to know how alone I really am. Like there isn’t anyone else in the entire world after all. I feel very alone. I fear that I don’t exist. I feel no one else does. I worry these realizations will end me. I am very afraid of existing without form. And love, seems like a child’s story. Pretty, but untrue. Funny, as not two days ago I publicly extolled the merit of that very emotion above all else. Funny, as love is the singular thing I have wanted for all of my conscious life here on earth. Have I been wanting a ghost? A mirage? Illusion? If what we believe exists I think I just solved why I haven’t I found love yet.
I didn’t believe it exists.
I like the story of love. It is nice. Inclusive. But … People often define fear as … An illusion. If fear doesn’t exist doesn’t it follow that its opposite doesn’t either? And as I have felt both … Are these things, these emotions just product of a dreaming mind? Or am I just consciousness being conscious and nothing really exits at all?
So what is the point? If we dont exist at all? Why are we here. Why are we there? (Here being alive and human and there being non physical energy or dead if you must be specific.) What is the reason we exist?
If we exist just because we do I think that would be incredibly boring. When I was a child heaven sounded dreadfully boring as singing and milk and honey forever didn’t seem worth all the things I had to do today to get there. And now the idea of just existing to exist, quoting Thich Nhat Hahn,”Your purpose is to just be.”
I feel the truth in that. It feels right. And my mind is quiet right now. Nothing spare and floaty comes in. I am in a meditative state. But I am awake and in this world, eyes open for the first time while in this deep. And I feel … Clear. Like breath, breathing, air is being drawn in from the far corners of the galaxy, like on some horizon where I can see for thousands upon billions of light years away. And I breath in from there. From all corners of there.
What is the purpose of love if love isn’t our purpose? What is the purpose of fear? And if we exist just to be why … Why isn’t there a purpose? What god would create us just to leave us with nothing to do? Was he just mad happy in the kitchen creating something to make himself happy in the creation of it? Not even planning on consuming his creation afterwords, which would be a purpose in the end after all. Isvara was said to have begun the world in one extended session of masturbation. We, of duality, were born of nothing. Are we just the unplanned pregnancy of the cosmos?
Why. The age old question. Why do we exist? Why am I alive? Why do I want to be? Why would I want to be otherwise? Why am I here? Why haven’t I killed myself yet? Is it fear? Or hope? It has to be hope, when in the heart of suicidal feeling I have always had this pure glow of hope from my center which … Got in the way. It gave me the feeling I have what I want waiting just around the corner. And that I can’t leave without it.
So what is waiting? What is the reason I am still here? I am happy with my realizations. I could die happy now. Today. There is nothing left to do. That I know of.
So why am I here still?
I thought it was love. I thought it was some grand scheme which said I have destiny to reach for the pinnacle of this feeling.
And if we exist to create our own purpose ….
Where is she?
She being the love I want. My reason for existence. My soulmate. My twin flame. Or whatever label you can subscribe to.
Heh. Even I can’t create that image in the heart of this place anymore. I am open to the realization love and fear don’t matter. And soul mates don’t exist. I want them to, I want one so very badly, but they don’t exist. And we don’t exist so is it any wonder that’s just a pretty fairy tale imagined.
All I have wanted since the beginning of my incarnation into this place is to be loved, and if emotions are just tools, like suits to put on, it stands to reason if I want love I could have it … if I just put on the love suit.
I don’t want to. I want love to come to me. I don’t want to create it. I want … Someone, anyone, to love me, see me. Enjoy me. So I can enjoy them. Even source would suffice.
But no one else exists. We are alone. We are source. I am source. I am alone. I am.
Perhaps that is the reason we are here. So we can pretend we aren’t alone.
What came first the chicken or the egg? Does it matter? The other isn’t real anyway.
And love isn’t real. And neither is fear. And you and I, we both don’t exist. Awareness, consciousness, source, god exists. And that is all. I is designation. Noun defined as person, place, or thing.
And words really don’t matter either.
In the last meditation I did I was a book, full of white empty pages. And you could write on them, tear them out, try and understand but run water over then and they were clean and white again. And I could read them, without the words. Words got in the way. Each page was too full to hold words on it.
its like I loved,
in a dark place.
she was my heart,
before her I didn’t know
I had one. she grew there,
in my chest, like a feathered
thing, a beating drum,
and she showed it to me.
she showed me what a heart
is. she showed me
and I learned
and I surpassed her.
she left me,
in a dark place.
when she left I
she took the light
with her, and I was alone.
and I still had my heart,
which was her
and it ached
in the absence of her.
and it beat sluggishly,
I could feel it in my chest,
hear it in my skin,
the flutter of it’s magnanimity,
made me worry.
I forgave her,
and I blamed her,
and I bade her,
return to me.
but only silently,
she never did,
until I had become
and she sad
and I was moved on.
and then she wrote,
me claimed love
for me, spoke
love for me,
and I was angry,
and I was pain,
and I was scared,
and I refused her.
and I left her
in a dark place.
get out, I said,
and when she’d gone
silent I remembered
how I loved,
how my heart,
beat as her,
personified as her,
and that I loved her.
and how it just wasn’t
enough, to love
in the dark. love
I feel eviscerated.
I must caution you against reading this if you are feeling emotionally fragile. If you are you might want to leave it unread. My pain wafts off these pages. I am undone here. I am laid bare. I am naked in my vulnerability and I promise you will feel with me by the end. And I must write this; I have no choice.
I feel tortured. I feel I stayed a while in hell. I did so willingly, assured there was some point to it, but in the end if the conversation had not taken place, perhaps I would be better. I know I would still be the same. Now I am different, changed, born anew, stronger. I weathered it, I faced the doubts another’s counteractive view tried to impress upon me, like brainwashing, like waterboarding, waves of her emotions, her pain, her need impressed upon me. I nearly sunk with the weight of it. And I knew, going in, she would be doing this to me, she would be dragging me down into her undertow, into her water depths of despair, into her hell. And I sought to heal, and understand, and pour my own fire on the blaze.
I regret it now. I don’t often regret much, but I do regret the anger and insanity I let loose upon her. Oh, I doubt I left visible wounds. I doubt I even left new ones. It’s possible I just reopened old ones with my truths but I regret doing so. Hurting her, was not satisfying when she is already so hurt. And the only way I forgive it, is to acknowledge she has hurt me, and it was in aid of healing for myself which let me pour the truths unfolded upon her already self pitying ears. I feel eviscerated, due to myself being reamed out during the duration of the conversation, scooped out of pain and anger and hate; all wrapped up in blame of her, for the hurts she dealt, and which I endured, and which I overcame, and which I removed myself from, and which she might do so again. I felt threatened. She wanted me back, in her life, in her existence, in her sphere. She wanted to impart how I was her love, and she was not the person I remember her as the (one who didn’t love me, and treated me so). And so I, not knowing where I was going, allowed it, until the pain drove my body into sleep, and my soul into healing, and I awoke feeling eviscerated.
I wondered, the whole while, if it were me? If I was the one in the wrong. If it was only that I change could the happily ever after come into being? I entertained the idea it was all my fault, and I need only change and be more loving and accepting, and she and I would heal and the hurt would stop. I tried to apply all my learned stuffs on spiritual matters and I only managed to open a door, and let her into my soul to torture it further. The interrogator in my den. She is a broken thing right now, hurting, dying, letting the pain she wrought upon herself and others eat at her soul. She is supposed to be happy, not thinking of me, living her life, loving it. Instead she is calling my friend crying that I refused answer her missive, and she is feeling such self pity she throws traps of guilt that cling like tar to my feet to capture me and draw me in.
And then she tried, oh she did, to tell me she loved me. I tried, I did, to believe it. I allowed her to torture me, with news about her, with her side of the story, with recollections grim and glossy, and I tried to see it this way. She loved me, and she was scared, and she still wanted me, and it did not compute. I am done. I am different. She has intruded upon a new me. I am not the thing she tossed around, like a cat with ball. I am not the toy she made me. I am stronger than that.
I refused to become hers again. I refused to entertain her notions of events, told in her version, colored her way, decrying my own lived recollections. I refused to give up my ideas, for they mold me, make me, become me, I live because of them. I refused to give up the beauty I have become in aid of a dark, twisted version that remains lost and left cautionary tale and recovered from. I am this beautiful spirit, and I do need to remain this. I refused allowance of the contrary.
But it was hard won. This woman, who loved me, who was me, who wanted me, is not worthy of me. And I am worth more than she, and what she gives, and what she offers, and what I need. I am worth more than the past, and worth more than the pain, and worth more than the lived torture. I refused. And with parting blows she let me be.
And I feel eviscerated. Like I were she, and she is death, and I am dying the arms of her soul. I feel, too much connection. I must need withdraw, but it hurts to. For I did love her. I did. I did. I just lost us both along the way.
There though, it is done. I wrote her thusly, speaking of my actual feelings, and my actual perception, and my actual reality. I spoke more of truths and less of lies and platitudes and couched phrases of softness. I told her I was done. And I meant it. I do not want her back. I do not want that pain again. I do not deserve to be tortured. I am done.
And I feel like death. Behind my eyes I feel tears which remain just whines of tiredness and ache. I feel like a battlefield gone cooling. I feel like a demon horde ravaged land. I feel finally finally free. And it does not feel good, as I expected it to. It’s just heavy with losses, on both sides, and disgusting with corpses, and pregnant with pain. It feels like healing is in order but grief is too momentary to allow just yet. It feels, like apocalypse.
For the past ten minutes I have been lectured by myself.
Or rather it weren’t lecture but preaching or something to that effect. It, the other side of the argument, the other me voice, the devil’s advocate so to speak, was discussing my accepted belief that I can’t, and demanding confirmation I had been defeated.
“So have you been defeated,” It demanded, all round words like a British dialect. “Have you been so conquered by doubt then? Have you settled like a conquered nation into the bosom of your self pity, like a wallowing in tears or mud and crying about crying and crying about the filth. Have you decided to surrender to a limitation you made, and accept yourself as all you can be under said limitation. Have you really decided that you can’t?
If so you might as well shuck off the mortal coil now, for all the good it will do you from here on out. Life lived under this belief of can’t is no life at all in both yours and mine opinion. Thus you have allowed yourself to die, and still walk around as if you aren’t. This is such silliness I would rather you toss yourself off a bridge rather than wallow in such a wretched display.
And yet, I would rather you not. You see I know you. I see how you live your life. You assume laziness or lack of will leads to this path of can’t but I know better. You walk around going through the motions all the while you remain a person in mourning, for yourself.
I know you. You remain a beautiful intelligent self. You endeavor to always see and change for beauty. For the better. For the love you give. What you love you try and become. What you want is not own things, materialistically, but to absorb them into your being like osmosis, because you know if you walk away without something of them to hold on to, the memory will slip away. You own to imprint, not cage.
You are not greedy or selfish or conniving. You worry the idea of misconduct between teeth and tongue and moral code.
You seek knowledge above all else because that is something you can keep, find beautiful, and instantly apply. Like manifestation. You are wholly wonderful, you see your self growth, watch your being change, you embrace all things about yourself even if it is stubbornly etched there in psyche for years, you exorcise it and transmute it and find it lovable. You believe in all beliefs and none.
You find yourself tickled by things you say and do and love. You reflect this in others and love them their self owned pieces of you. You hear your own negativity and indulge in fits of tantrum only to walk away forgetting it completely minutes, hours, days later. And you smile and congratulate yourself on your victories small and great. You even find pleasure in your machinations.
You are what you seek. You are glory incarnate. You are capable and able and talented and worthy. You see yourself through another’s eyes before your own. You forget it is not them seeing you, but you seeing you through the reflection. You second guess and attempt for better each time. You embrace your tears, flee your pain until you remember its better to accept, you ever and always love.
I know you. I am you. I see you. And can’t is not a word you want to apply. Can’t is the word you use to put up barriers so you forget there is more ahead. Can’t is the word you would replace, were you to hear it fall from another’s lips, you would want to chastise and uplift and advise, were it another. Can’t is the word you enchain yourself with. You mourn not your death but your freedom.
And I would say I can’t allow it but I refuse to use that word nor place it on you, even as you are me, even as we are, and this is a conversation with myself. I allow you the choice to use it henceforth. But I challenge the necessary of this action. Why need you say you can’t? Why need you an excuse to not be more? Why need you this limitation? How does telling yourself you can’t serve you?
Beloved I love you. I can’t imagine not. And yes I can. I can imagine not loving you, not loving me, because we have before. And walking the path of self hatred, of self fear, is not the path you know now. Self love is won. I choose to love you. You choose to love you.
This is the choice. Fear or Love.
i was seeking you.
in the forest i found a well, a deep yawning into the earth, and with trepidations tripping tattoo heartbeats i dove, from hell into hell. perception
i met the white stag at the well wall, where the stone meets the earth and the wall melts away into a passage below, a dip down deep, and i kept a hand upon the animal’s back, fingers fastened in fur, as he did guide the way.
i came down to the river, spirit stag at my side. it was wide and wet, watery. blue and dull gray it churned into darkness of indigo beneath the first feet of it, and i did not dare to wade.
there was not boat to cross it on, and there was a raft-like bridge. it did bounce upon the water like so much as a leaf upon a pond, and it did not feel steady beneath my feet, and it did not feel of the water’s spirit for it did not converse with me, although sister water does indeed enjoy our talks habitually.
across the river there was a stream, it meandered in muted motion to the holes in the cavern, in the rock, where neither did the rocks speak, but neither did they before. however the water drug my gaze; my attention fastened upon that very pinpoint of a passage, it grew, until i could walk through it side by side with my guide, his antlers slightly scraping stone the way through.
the other side was a great expanse, it opened into an islet of greenery; of forest and waterfalls, and a sun which was incongruent with where we were on the physical plane, leading to the conclusion: we were not on the physical plane.
i was seeking you.
you met me at the gate, where the trees stood like boundary and the sea languidly lapped where sand met the roots that dug down deep. you met me, looking like I’d never seen you, and you smiled, holding a fire aloft, as if you needed it to light your way, despite the light like day of the sun.
i followed you. we did not speak. and i wondered if you were quiet because you did not wish to see me or if it was because the beauty of the place would be disturbed by so crude a thing as words were. and at the waterfall my thoughts about this were stolen by the sound of the roar, and i felt the spirit of sister water here, so sweet, as if it were the purest essence of herself that remained, and i realized why you didn’t speak.
there was not call for words. words remain what we do to communicate, in aid of seeking what we seek, which when broken down to ultimate goal, becomes the thing we define as love. here, love, as comprehensible as what i could possibly imagine, and fathoms farther, was already here. and i was not unhappy, nor did i want, nor did i seek, nor did i need. and you were here. and i was with you. and we walked past the waterfall, into the sun’s heat.
brother sun was bare against the sky. it was as if in his nakedness he was more glorious than mere thought could produce in present viewing when above. brother sun was not the harshness of power and light as we saw him, nor the source of the life we enjoyed, not here. here in his nakedness i finally saw him, and it did not hurt to look upon his brilliant form, and it did, for it broke understanding upon the wall of my ignorant way, and i finally realize why i was born under the light, and not under another lamp of totality.
i was seeking you. i remember coming here with a yern in my heart; a sadness collected behind my eyes, and in my dry lips, and behind my throat. i remembered a losing of you. and i remember a mourning. i was seeking you when i came here. and when i found you. there was no joy of a finding because i was never seeking you, i was seeking this.
we waded into the water of a lake. the trickle of the river which had seemed so ominous before did pour in here, and met life in sister water, in this spirit of water which was so personified as pure. in this water i felt lifetimes of health seeping into skin not skin but soul. and i felt myself like a sponge absorb the light of it, with my eyes on you and your skin wet, and your countenance brilliant in its glow. i had never seen you happy until here. i had never seen you smile. i had never watched you glow with health. i had never seen you alive.
i remember you died and i felt your absence. i remember i felt the loss as a part of me. i remember i wanted to find you and assume myself that you were not dead because of me. due to a lack of action of mine; of love withheld. i remember walking down to the river. seeing the shiver of leaves upon the coldness of sister breeze. i remember watching the leaves float on the water as you passed. and i remember seeking you there. until i was seeking you everywhere, and then i was just seeking.
but you are not lost. i, a ghost talker, who believes not in ghosts thought you were and sought you out, to assure myself in selfishness, where you were. but you were not lost and i did not find you. it was never you who needed to be found.
all this time. all this way. all this journey, from the mouth of the earthen well, to the trail of stag prints in sand, i was seeking a thing i’d lost.
it turned out i was seeking, not a ghost, but a lost thing. it was me.