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.
I stand alone.
Whitewash the world
reflects back a blank canvas,
And I paint the vibration
of my thoughts upon it.
My thoughts create
the people and the grass,
the sky and the gravity,
the hunger and the sadness,
the ultimate whine of emotion.
My thoughts create my fears,
intense and longing,
wide-eyed and full,
brilliant and decadent.
My thoughts create
and I am unmade and lost in them
for they consume me,
mountains pile on me stretching into infinity
for every want ever desired and not,
every decision done and discarded,
every possibility sits upon me,
weightless until the weight of all of them crush me
slowly in the illusion of their reality.
And I am unmade and become them,
so buried beneath myself created ideations
I am relegated to ideation itself,
and my thoughts create more of me,
all in aid of trying to find me.
And thus I am unmade.
Light, however, glimmers periodically.
The people I created with thought
walk and talk
with will of their own,
as if their holographic construction
evolved into actual sentience,
and I interact until I perceive them as the reality.
And then I love and hate them,
worry and coddle them,
feel the persecution of them,
until I am buffed by their own thought forms
and I am further unmade.
Then light gleams, a single clear ray.
I fall in love,
and she is so bright
inside my closed eyes,
the lightness fills my soul
and it shines out my chest,
between my breasts,
and I am momentarily whole.
For a moment I am
by the infinite mountain
of thought debris.
And I shine,
and I glow,
and I absolutely expand
into a feeling of airiness.
I feel as if I were light and air. For a moment.
For a moment.
She is there,
just not here,
here she is dense, a creation,
and one that hurts even as it
brightens me, inspires me.
She looks like a creation of this world,
and I see her with open eyes
And thorny flaws
and skin so precious a color I want to weep at the sight of it
for it is so precious to me.
I enjoy her smile,
bask in the light it throws,
and I revel in each and every
gentle gesture she makes
And I am undone. I unravel,
I literally unwind all the ropes of
pain and anguish
each infinite whim and thought
conjured to bind me,
and it feels like falling,
but I am mere whittled away,
for a moment at a time,
into what I was,
until my creation overpowered me.
And that is how you see heaven I think,
see past the illusion,
see beyond your own minds expression,
and glimpse the other side.
Glimpse the next realm,
another reality, the other world.
The other’s world.
I felt God when I I looked upon her,
eyes wide open and tightly shut, and. . .
. . . And I think for a moment she saw me,
from her own world,
from beneath her own infinite mountain,
from her own living grave, I think she saw me.
And I was with her in some timeless place for a time.
Until we let the thought forms
back in and they distracted us
The world is whitewashed
beneath the paint and
peeling paper and
The world is empty
and I mask the emptiness
with imagination painted like
so much acrylic scree
stuck to the thing.
And the people are just people,
extensions of me only
as they are mine mind
come to life.
Until I saw one and chose to see,
loved one and chose to disclose.
Until I opened my eyes to
the illusion of the mountain,
I cannot be with anyone.
Inside I feel such pain. I don’t know why nor where it comes from, but it manifests in this strange urge to eschew company. I haven’t spent much time around anyone in months. The days stretch long and open, I wake when I wish, sleep when its needed, eat for pleasure not routine. My life revolves around three solid things, my healing, distractions, and love.
This love is novel. I remain unfamiliar with this type of love. It is unique in that it is singular to me. I am the only recipient. I am the only source. I am in control of its generation. I bask in the flow. And this is my joy and regret.
I feel joy I have learned this, it is almost a new skill. It is almost a new dawn in my life. But I also miss being loved by another. I miss it.
This missing drives me to peruse online profiles but this habit has become a source of pain for me. I peruse and it gets stronger and stronger in my chest, a feeling of unease so great it feels like a stone covers my heart center…
And I am alone again.
I close the application and I am able to breathe through the pain. I have learned not to fight it. Pain exists. And it has just as much a right to exist as anything. It even has a purpose. But it doesn’t feel nice to cry and not know why. To poke around inside my head, berate my psyche, interrogate the evasive me, this is futile for I feel I have gotten somewhere …
… and I turn around the next day to discover I have only gone in circles. I am enough for myself and that is it. I only have myself and that is it.
And I am both content and ill content with that.
I would love to have dates, so I say this. Then it becomes untrue. This wretched thing come up, overcomes me it, and I find I am fighting fear more frightening that any first date. Why. Why can I not move on and get on with it. It feels like my life is on hold waiting for itself to begin. It feels like love, the concept of it sung in song and tale, seeps away into the cracks between memories.
Soon it will be gone I think. Loving her was so distinct but now it fades. And I am left alone.
I am reminded of last loves. The strong ones, the ones worth the bitter ends they became.
She remains a hollow in my memory, a holy thing, a fragile love. And so much anger builds behind it, for I am forced to think of the good times with the bad. After all she did not treat me with courtesy. I didn’t know it then but I know it now. I treat myself now as she should have done and wish I had known better. If I had known how to treat myself then she would have known how to treat me.
And the anger fades. I take responsibility back and it fades and I am grateful for the lesson learned. And I miss her a bit more with the knowledge.
I cannot be with anyone yet, because the pain is still too great even now. She does hold that place, it’s been a year. But I cannot let go so another could claim it. I cannot let go. I am afraid to let go. I fear unlearning the love I hold now. I fear unloving myself when I lose the love of her. I fear being alone with a lonely me instead of one eschewing company. It is almost better to pine than it is to be loved.
Here I at least have control of my heart.
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.
I let myself sleep in with a dream lover.
This morning I woke up with a thousand worries and nothing to actually do but dwell on them. Or, shall I say, I was meant to wake up thusly. And I did wake up, facts the same. However, on the edges of sleep and waking, just before when I was to open my eyes, I was dreaming. And the dream was not going pleasantly.
There was much disarray and fighting being done, the character who was me made some mistakes, and when I realized I had control I bade her apologize. Or rather I apologized, now taking up the role which I already lived there, giving care and love back, turning negative into learning and positivity. I’ve been doing that a lot lately in my waking state so it was easy to do in my dreams now.
I did apologize and received an armful in return. A naked and desirable and dominating armful, with a pretty sinful mouth and wicked fingers. And the dream followed that line of thought to it’s very satisfying conclusion.
Why am I telling you of such personal intimacy? Because: Illustration.
Because how we feel affect what we bring to ourselves, so says the Law of Attraction, to which I subscribe. I have been worried of late. Worry bordering on they way one wiggles a loose tooth with their tongue despite the twinge that brings. I’ve had two things on my mind. Money and love. Heavy subject for any one mind but for me I find usually love wins out as more pressing.
If you read my blog you might have found the last few posts dripping with ennui and pathetic pining; even I am tired of feeling heartbroken, but we write what we know. And I have known worry; since all the other good things in my life swiftly coalesced into awesomeness so straight went my attention the the lingering negatives. Number one being my recent ex; the heart ache more poignant due to her making contact a few weeks ago. And number two: Money. Money has been a pressing issue, or rather the lack and lateness of it. I’ve been expecting several checks. My worry has been keeping me from them.
Abruptly I find all my attention focuses solely on this imaginary lover, this dream lover. It isn’t that she is perfect, she is not, it is that I crossed a bridge in that dream. In a dream where my worldly worries and learned fears remain far from mind, I felt no need to hold back. I gave her trust, which I hardly do when awake; trust is one of my issues. And I did wake feeling a little cured of that. The dream was enough that when I did wake I felt, it feels, as if I truly woke in a lovers arms. As if I truly spent the morning there. My brain literally stuttered when my mind wanted to worry the negatives while I sat the toilet after rising deliciously late from my bed. And the worries which had been hounding me seemed not so great. Their import lay far behind me. So too, in fact did the missing of my ex, and I spent the morning happy instead of worried. Completely happy. No effort to be that way, no forced and gritted teeth willing myself happy. Just natural happiness.
Immediately I get a call. The check has been delayed but here’s some money to tide you over til it arrives. For the holidays. Shall we drop it off for you? What’s your address?
Talk about hand delivery. And instant manifestation. Instant gratification even!
Amazing. It is truly and simply amazing what can happen when you get out of your own way. This is what can happen when light and love divine does get let in. I remember speaking to myself as I lingered on the edges of sleep. I was scolding myself, in a caring way. I told myself to accept the money coming my way. I hadn’t yet. I hadn’t believed it was mine. I had been awaiting belief until it was in my hands. And then I did so deliberately; I let myself accept the money. And then I worried not. And then it came.
Ask. Accept. Believe. Allow. Receive.
… Or something to that effect.
Law of attraction in action. Deliberate creation.
Thank you Universe for your infinite kindness. Thank you for being there for me even when all my doubt is in play. Thank you for always always giving me what I want, whatever I want. Thank you for … being. Your existence is precious to me; I see us as one and the same. As I thank you I thank myself. As I care for myself I care for you. As I bless you I bless myself. I am grateful.
I bless myself with light and love. I bless myself with pure source energy.
I spoke unkindly to you, last we spoke. I feel that I was too harsh and my conscience has been giving me grief over it. I must apologize. Please understand, I am on the verge of being who I want to be and balanced on the fence of who I was. I understand and see, and often feel both sides. I know how I feel when lost in the hurt of the past. I know how I feel when it is all forgiven. I prefer that place but … To feel your hurt over the past come creeping into your life and health .. I felt it in like kind. I love you. I don’t say it so you can be reminded, Laura. I say it because it expresses the very depth of what you mean to me. And it expresses it not. Because I feel so much more. I feel hope and light and harmony. I feel softness and love and comfort. I feel tears, they move beneath the subject and I can’t tell if they make me sad or glad, if they are an upwelling of good or grief. I just know, my life feels blurred without you. Like I am at the bottom of the sea seeing through it. And happiness clears up that view. And still the weight of emotions, now crystal clear, sit upon me oceans deep.
I have given up the hurt, Laura. Forgiveness you might call it. Now I just crave peace. But I don’t know where to look for it, when you are in my thoughts, and only there. I feel at peace with my actions. I don’t feel at peace without you. I cannot move on. Or rather, I have not. And what I have done, perhaps to my detriment, is keep alive a small kernel of hope which says, ‘You are the love of my life. There must be a way.’
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.
i’m going to make
this will be