Philosophy of the Piercing Spear

Image by Victoria_rt from Pixabay

Learning to discern the fine line between due effort and unnecessary pain is a type of art by which fashionable human behaviour seems rudimentary or obsolete.

Little do old philosophies and popular ideals beget before the face of one who is maddened with a reason to be himself when fundaments do nothing but drown and suppress.

Neither humans’ factual nor romanticized nature can stand between his essence of being and its realization, although some may disagree.

A question to ask often would be, “To what extent am I myself, and to what extent am I the product of something or somebody else’s puppetry?”.

A puppeteer needs not be the common fiend we like so much to incriminate, externalized or dwelling in the crevices of ourselves – consciously enacting the ways of vileness, or obliviously carrying on the motions of pre-ordained mandate.

The collective’s and the individual’s torment are loftier and more complex than words can articulate.

And he who has neither knowledge of the world nor of himself little can avow, contemplate, or rage against to see his boons or change his own predicament.

And on he goes, collecting chains from all the sources he has entertained, as well as consolidating those already dragged to his own strength or detriment.

Whether we are the armchair taster of ideas or the living incarnation of the knowledge we acquire, there is more to find beyond the layers of anything which we may lay actively or not our eyes or any other organ of awareness upon.

Wide-Ranged

Image by Adam Derewecki from Pixabay

An ivory tower climbs above the soft, clear clouds. Its majesty peaks beside the sun of late afternoon in an embrace of glory in a regal ballroom. The city below is entranced by its own reveries of pain and lust, while the Pegasus gazes upon it from its Empyrean abode.

By the city’s port swims the Swan of Dreams, sun-kissed, starlit – a graceful sight, a loveling. From her back, red roses blossom and wave in the breeze.

Unbeknownst to the citizens, the Swan passes by as it is her journey to be.

Her eyes are diamonds of sacred curiosity, yet the citizens miss her dock for their own sentence of death in life perpetuated by the ebb and flow of oblivious breath.

Alyona’s Journal I: Claim Yourself, Be your own Master

I do not content myself with merely spewing words around. I practice what I preach, so I encourage each individual to explore life and discern that which is most suitable for his well-being and prosperity.

– Alyona

Something snapped, and I felt the known existential discomfort of looking for a purpose or something desirable, engaging, interesting, or entertaining to mind.

As I browsed through YouTube, I became aware that even frustration was created by me, not by life or the browser. That frustration and any other affliction only came into being as a reflection of my relationship with myself and my vision of reality.

Being aware of myself, I noticed how I was searching, but at the same time also mentally resisting taking something in and giving it an opportunity.

With this awareness, I consciously chose a video to watch and focus on or immerse myself in.

I felt the shift immediately: how tension and mental resistance dissolved into nothingness, and how the experience became more pleasant.

Out of the ordeal, I emerged with this:

Avoid the trap of searching mindlessly for something that can only be fixed from within. That is a distraction from what truly needs to be addressed. Also, stay clear of gathering or accumulating too much information just for the sake of it under the guise of “learning” or “education” when you have no clear vision for its use; for it may feel and be like you are perpetually preparing for a future that will never come. Pick one thing and stick with it until you master it, to then let it branch out.

Through your relationship with yourself and your vision of reality, the matter directs you back to mind the quality of your focus.

What you focus on is what you will materialize and experience. It is not a matter of any particular circumstance that determines your life experience, but rather how you relate to the experience – consciously or not.

So, how well can you sustain a constructive mental framework, and live your life lucidly while directly influencing it?

If you have to think about this question, start working on your ability to and quality of focus. Do not wait, postpone, or wish for another day, another time, or for the future that looms forever on the horizon. Wake up and be and do right now!

You have this moment right now to be productive with yourself in building up and refining your life.

Despite any and all existential discomforts, take a deep breath in while acknowledging the situation as you go within, and focus on something to get yourself ahead.

Always give yourself something to look forward to.

  • Pictures:
  1. https://pixabay.com/images/id-2471007/
  2. https://pixabay.com/images/id-3252371/
  3. https://pixabay.com/images/id-4393603/

Mistress of Good Malevolence

Image by ARLOUK from Pixabay

The Muse of Melancholic Fumes

uprooted the glass which incised the eye,

and with decorous hand,

escorted me back to the desert of impious minds.

I breathed in the sunlit sands with insurgent contempt

as the gentle Logos whispered tears of vigor worth to preserve.

My heartbeats raised in sickening waves

upon witnessing the mortification of inculcation

in the currents of fresh water unable to retaliate.

I ached and grieved from the shade of my parasol,

and longed for the maiden whose amphorae made the world flow.

Yet the star did not shine upon the barren land,

and I wondered who appointed the comatose to the front lines.

Womb Liturgy

Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay

Come to feel my heavy heart

as I bleed for you tonight.

Come to soothe my laments

as I stand for you in Light.

I run to you to die,

for there is mercy in your arms.

No love compares to yours, Forgotten Mother of the World!

Come to me, my shrine — my haven, my heart!

Sing me a lullaby,

and guard me with your mind.

Embosom me, Endless Dark!

Kiss me into your essence sublime.

Release me from the chains that keep away the Night.

Cockroach Juice – Chapter I

The sun hid behind the ashened clouds of the desolate afternoon as the melody of rain and the fragrance of humid earth danced in through the ajar window.

Image by nile from Pixabay

A butterfly clashed against the windowpane. The wind dragged it into the silent chambers, and laid its corpse to rest upon the snout of the sleeping performer.

The cat sneezed at the touch of the dead insect, and opened his eyes alarmed as the memories of the previous night returnt to him.

Lord Kamsim Mira jumped out of bed at once and staggered toward the towering double doors at the feet of his place of rest. He looked for pommels, yet found none. Scratching away the darkened wooden colours, the feline reached a solid wall. The doors had been a painting all along.

In whimpers, the cat turnt cold on his heels. He dragged his sore feet window-ward, and inadvertently burried his paw in his chest when he felt the weight of a million chains yanking his heart away.

With great strain, in tears, and with a runny nose, the cat fell on his four legs and crawled to the window sill. To the furtherance of his dismay, there was no afternoon that his senses could entertain, and much less a ground upon which to land and escape. The weary sky flickered. The illusion was uncapable of self-sustaining as the feline alternated sight between its falsity and the great black void below.

The aroma of earth’s union with the cleansing beads of heaven slowly painted images in the artist’s mind’s eye. Treasures of another time rendered the cat speechless as though his grieving bleeding chest denied him the utterance of his agony.

Overcome by a weakening uneasiness, Lord Kamsim Mira’s chest fell beyond the window-sill. Nauseous, the feline made an attempt to recover the equilibrium, yet his paws slipped off as waves of sickness increasingly rushed in. The bile trespassed the cat’s threshold, and he regurgitated. Blood vessels exploded from the corners of his eyes as the blackened vomitus poured out of his shaking body.

Impotent to hold himself any longer, Lord Kamsim Mira plummeted into the abyss; however, the visions followed him into the pit.

Dead & Awake

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

In the breeze lies no breath

for which I extend my grip and forbear my weeping.

In every garden a pricking thorn

for every poignant rose worth keeping.

The tides wash over the sands of my soul –

wax me stagnant,

gorgonize me on the spot,

tease the ground so tarnished with the white execrable.

Erewhile it had not mattered,

but the name of her burst forth of every mouth

in the hopes the prayers were answered.

They knew not their saviour laid breathless and disarranged

at the bottom of the old stone well amidst the town square,

that I bled her to death with a pen to quench my thirst,

to spare myself of beholding her face.

Clouds had not ere brought about the darkness,

and pouring ceased not thereafter.

The sun had fallen into the land of the forgotten,

and in her stead a young black star was lauded.

The sun never tarnished, if you ever wonder.

The sun alone perished without warning.

Solemn Pleasure

Feather feet tickle the blackened reflection of forgotten regions.

The fathomless mirror weeps with tears of oblivion

as the mystic voice of some divine creature denudes with tender touch

the skin seared in the truce of sweet perdition.

Silken vocals wrought from the salt of reasonless reason

declare war against the bearer of gentle breeze and warmth of spring

that if the bosom dare be tranquil still,

thorns of nightshade and opium dreams will unearth the graves of youth-besotted shards

beclothed by the deranged pure minds of the sheltering lamps

in a world of dark delight.

Cockroach Juice – Prelude

The fair cat in a suit of velvet blue looked with disgust at the raindrops trickling down the roof at the entrance of the old cabaret.

Tonight, like the previous night, and countless others lost in time, Lord Kamsim Mira had performed before an audience of dispirited souls.

The prominent feline had sung for so long that he, too, had nothing but emptiness in his once wild heart. The cold starless sky was the extension of his withered smile. Each time, he greeted it with the air of resignation of a man who ignites a fight just to surrender and die. This was his drill – the endless gloom of post performance nights, when the void that corroded him came alive and brought about the gall of an immortal with little regard for life.

Tonight, the minstrel of the drunk and the swine, still cursed and breathed in the fumes of his earthly prison; however, the cat was not of his reason.

Overtaken by the desire to escape his malediction, Lord Kamsim Mira closed his eyes and jumped into the streets in a warcry.

To his discontentedness, no carriage, and no murdeous shadow deigned to relieve him from existence. Instead, sundry legs and eyes filled his vision and cornered him behind a building of stone at the other side of the street he had crossed.

“You are one naughty cat”, said the mist who kept him from harm.

“Unhand me!” cried the feline, yet the oily musty stench of that fog saviour permeated through his nose and claimed abode in the residence of his lungs.

Soon enough, the gracious cat laid unconscious upon the hardened ground — tongue hanging to the side, tensed lines of furry brow slowly yielding to the sphere of dark.

You Are Responsible for Yourself

Image by Jonny Lindner from Pixabay

In my mind, I simply behave as I like when I please.

In your head, I am the summary and reminder of the tears you’ve shed and the anxiety you’ve given yourself into.

It’s not my intention to aggravate your pain, and I often come to the conclusion that I innately know how to reflect your inner world to force you to face the shades of your dead.

Not for a moment fool yourself with the thought that your words or deeds can affect me. Only you will suffer the whole price for your nescience and your insolence.

Yelling, taking offense, won’t make your turmoil go away. The more you resist, the more the themes that tint the walls of your consciousness will be projected onto your surroundings.

You will see me and others enact your fears and your blockages until you decide to convert them and use them to propel you toward the next stage of personal evolution.

Whatever you do, I will observe impervious.

You will display your most child-like behaviour when I break down to you your mental processes as you’ll feel denuded before the imposing truth with no way to retaliate against it.

You think your age validates your comportment.

Before my eyes, you are but a snot of life who was never taught to rise above the detrimental patterns of the sleeping rusty ones.

For once, ever since you were birthed into this world of lies, ponder upon the reasons behind your impulses, and stop hiding from your internal problems.

Do yourself a favour.

Know yourself before you engender a monstrosity you will later regret.

The House of Infamous Memories

Thus, Alethea growled,

“In slithered the sad artist with manner of reverie.

She danced ’round the pyre that calcinated the enemy,

and drank from my veins until she was sated.

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

Unholy hands elevated me beyond the flesh

to confine me to the house of infamous memories.

I wished to sleep, but discarnate voices of the past conjured up my wildness;

thus, I confronted them – broke their necks and ate their eyes to absorb their power.

Not too long after in this abode of correspondence,

a rapping at my door broke the stillness of my conscience.

“Go away!” I shouted in turmoil – my knees upon the floor, my heartbeats sundry.

I saw the hand that knocked on as no wall dared to shield me.

I saw the hand that knocked on even when the entrance was unopened.

“Let me in!” the ghoulish tongue demanded.

I sure held onto my faculties and beheld the blind man bearing crotches;

his grime was of a flower, his eyes a thousand thunders.

“Would you let me in?” said the cripple in a wonder

when I stood to analyse his intimate comportment.

A thought, a desire of abandonment tempted me to bed in a glorious bolting.

“Leave him there!” I heard as the ghost of Lethe perched

upon the threshold of accomplishment.

“Imbibe from the chalice of the dead and string my song in the nest of men.”

“Accurst!” I pined and pained. “Thy touch is of a bane!”

Forthwith I removed the first lock, allowing in the head of bleeding torment.

Unseeing as the man was, he managed to find my gaze and sigh.

The being vanished into thin air,

and darkness spread her mantle of primeval hearth.

I turnt on my heels – cold and aghast – just to find a woman akin to the man,

yet greasy and pregnant as she gave me a side smile.

“How did you get in?” blurted I. “Tell it to me, or I will kill you otherwise!”

“Remember the path beyond the Nightmare White?”

The woman cut all distance betwixt us and touched my hands.

Her fetid curls, her mouth swamp-like, burnt my insides

and turnt my semblance into a sour mask;

albeit enthralled I was by her shining azure eyes.

“You can’t unlearn a lesson learnt.

I know your happiness.

It’s all carved in where reversed dreamers dare not tread.”

Had I looked elsewhere but the woman’s eyes,

I would have seen the ungodly beast extract the life out of me.

Her grey hands gripped my neck, and I desperately sought calmness.

In those disturbed blue eyes, love danced in swirls of hand forlorn.

Hatred – a merciful cure for a heart whose sun burnt for reasons unknown.

Caged eternities – impulses of a sojourn gone too long –

laced vivid tales of a time that is no more.

Moved by sorrow once forgot, my countenance softened,

yet the daemoness brought her wrath further for my insolence – my boldness.

“Forgive me!” I stammered.

For the first time, surprise visited the woman’s visage;

consequently, I took advantage of such fleeting frailty

to turn my hands into claws –

to rip her head off and devour her eyes along with her unborn.

Thus, the last seal broke.

“What have I done!” I wept –

ebony tears abolishing the masters of the spider-web.

“My life!

Seed from the womb of another mother!

Scorn me not; for I can’t retaliate against this hunger.

Resurrect, my love – my longing!

What must I do to release thee from the arms of non-becoming?”

Sovereignty of the Mourning Brat

Image by JL G from Pixabay

From the ashes of past

’till the shadow hereafter,

the wrath of my soul shall breathe you terror.

I will laugh and conjure the fire of the nameless stars

as I relish your agony and frolic in this crown of tar.

You let me down, little bird of the sky —

bound me to a life in silence.

You stringed my limbs as far as it could have lasted.

There’s nowhere to go in this world forlorn

for one who takes not the spear of divine role.

Caged in your own disaster,

you will yearn for my poison dagger.

The winds will deny your voice and swallow your words

as penitence for your narrow-mindness.

Give me your tears, Asinine of Unsuited Matters!

I shall drink the nectar transmuted in the entrails of your delightful mother,

and free the world as I drag you crestfallen.

Sigh of the Blooded March

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

In a summer land, a kingdom of ice stands upright.

The sun perishes before the stroke which forces masses into stone.

The walls of a neutral core may break alone to give way

to grey rocky protrusions of painless pain,

and defy the natural order to command saline rain.

The shards are alive.

They contain the secrets long lost to men,

yet bane their gist exudes to the soul whose midst is uncouth and strained.

The fiend of the flat nourishment baits with the hand of flatter aliment.

The blob abhors that which translates to growth and refinement,

yet let abhorrence be the might of their supine power.

Down come the storm of glacial fire!

Wash our hands and lend us the eye of the deeper waters.

The shards breathe from borrowed life,

their iridescence stolen from the sweet guitar

that accompanies my cries every night.