The Selves of the Self at the Upward Dance!

Come hither, fine lads!
Gather ye 'round the Mad Theatre 
At the advent of midnight. 
Gather ye, for the show is about to start!

Each day I do something different.

Even when I still work on and finish what I set myself to do, each day I do something different.

The same stone is not to be stepped on twice, or least (and for better purposes), the same stone is not to be stepped on in the same manner: some days we jump on it; some days we walk on it; some days we dance on it; some days we fly with it; some days we caress it or meditate on it; some days we drive a hammer through it, and build something new out of it.

Each day I do something different.

I think I finally am glimpsing at the nature of cycles.

I read somewhere that a man cannot cross the same river twice. Similarly, the world and people are never the same from day to day. Change is always operating in life, vibration is in everything.

When I deem it substantial to start a project and ignite it, the same aspect of me who decides to initiate the project will not be the same aspect that will finish it. The successor aspects of the aspect of myself that initiated the project will be the ones to carry the project forward, work on it, adapt it, and bring it to completion.

The self is composed of many selves, all of which are vehicles for consciousness to express itself through. And each aspect is possessed of a particular nature, specializing in something particular in proportion to that nature. The selves of the self are fluid, and they overlap constantly. Although they may be known and defined varying in degree, they are still interconnected. Surely, Lover Me, Philosopher Me, and Wall-Spotter Me would not work in the same manner, or follow the same procedures because their characteristics differ from each other’s.

Image by Ruth Archer from Pixabay

Life is in constant flux and reflux. With each breath we are born anew, and that makes the NOW the only time that is. The echoes of the past slip away like water through our fingers, and the future is framed in parchment, in blood, in toil and stain, in bliss, and with all manner of appliance unseen or clear in the chamber of our minds.

Still, all moments happen in the NOW.

The world and what is thought of as reality will never be a piece of immovable brick. Even a brick is composed of energy vibrating at a certain rate. And if the world was “immovable”, neither life nor any kind of movement, neither change nor evolution would be because there would only be stasis in the nothingness of being.

So, why not get to know ourselves, and learn to harmonize and work with the myriad cycles of all there is to the advantage of our life’s adventure?

Why not have fun on purpose while we still breathe?

Why not make our existence a fulfilling one?

Your experiences are yours to devour, a gift from yourself to yourself.

Lotus: the Pull of the Deep

Velvet feathers quill

The canticles of ecstasy.

The ocean, still, breaths in

And out of me,

Reflected in every raindrop,

This July of mermaid lullabies and salty breeze.

Velvet feathers embosom me

In the temple of Divinity.

Quiet still, heartbeats shed tears of ancient bliss.

Quiet still, beauty bleeds pensively through the eyes of memory.

There, who birth gave to the First Swirls

Moves enchanted by life and lyric,

Storytelling the Ways of Mystery –

The Ubiquitous core of Eternity.

Of Fools’ Honey and Darksome Mercury

Image by Alyona Uramuru

The fool by nature, despite his common condemnation, is the first figure who dares to explore, use his imagination, and bring about innovation. Surely, it is the fool’s agency to be the first to defy convention to find his own treasure. Laugh if you must, but remember it is the fool who does what most frightfully only behold with longing in their wildest fantasies and fascination.

Alyona Uramuru

The most amazing and terrible thing about asking a question (or asking for anything) is receiving an answer that makes you realize exactly what you were looking for; thus striking you in such a way that you may need a moment before regaining composure, and even shed some tears.

Deep down you know exactly what you should be doing, what brightly kindles your passions and fills you with life. But out of doubt and fear, all you have ever known screams at you as if to dampen the flame of your heart because it is a daunting task and a huge responsibility. And you know that being truthful to yourself is your only salvation regardless of the great anxiety and pain eating at you.

I yelled and screamed a question long enough to receive a rumbling answer, with care and attention received my own salvation and damnation; for even though my passions rightfully live, I drink from my own shadows’ poison still to reconcile and liberate each nook and cranny from a society that little has done to polish the diamond of its many and varied treasured inhabitants.

If you were to stretch your hand and touch the ghastly and terrifying figures in your mind, your hand would pass through a curtain of fading smoke, and you would see you are in a labyrinth of mirrors where you are the sole inhabitant who oppresses himself by letting the tool of his servitude be the master of his torture – the very mind with which he lives: no longer a servant but a tyrant with a crown of illusions.

So, my dear, the quality of your experiences, whether they feel pleasant or not, depend rightfully on you. Be then the master of your mind because this tool, when left alone to wander, takes abode in every household provocative enough to attract it like a famished dog by nature of its non-judgemental logic to consume and produce the pleasures or hells of your reality.

Verily, there is no excuse to avoid doing what you know you should be doing.

El Amante Idílico

Image by Simon Giesl from Pixabay

Me dedico a tu mirar,

corazón salvaje – bardo de canto brutal

sobre el vaivén de las tinieblas

azoradas por tu pasión sanguinaria.

Me dedico a tu mirar,

corazón antiguo – seductor de las estrellas

en el rito de las estelas de almizcle dulce

y hoguera primordial.

Tu voz se hace entrever sin palabras

sobre mi piel desatada en el grito del placer eterno,

y cada noche adulo tu esencia bélica

en el romance fiero de la bestia

que en sí encuentra propio anhelo.

To Quell Bananas in Cuckoo-Store

~ No picture! Nothing would ever represent it. ~

Methought to amuse the unthinkable,

to run after the trace of All that is and naught

just to race like a wild horse in circles of tail-tale,

and become bemused - more still desertly mad

in the uneasiness of human mind frenzied!

For realities merge, crash, and detach 'fore our eyes -

ever real, but always mythical.

A twin of water weeps as it rejoices 

at the majesty of the phenomenon.

Deep within, all the fleshly suited renters

thirst for the goblet which will never quench

the full abstract desire.

The Pale Lover

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Winter is here. Saturn strokes his beard, and the sages retreat into their caves to ponder upon the mysteries of death. The crows outside enliven the deafening silence, yet fall quiet with the same swiftness they took to their cawing.

In the cold breast of the sickle bearer, the dim grey world evokes an eldritch romance which human words stumble and fail to tongue. But buried in promising old tomes, I find the next stage for my atrocious play – a beauty which forlorn, a wisdom which is dreaded.

Legacy of the Grotesque

The wind-beaten lake was beset by offshore storms of confounded and weeping veils. In the midst of the tempest, awareness rose enraged to calm the waters, and the mirror-like lake became a reflection of an alternate state. All knights gathered under one plate, one flag, one creed to sustain: one-pointed laser stare beyond the conceivable extent; thus, the voice was the wordless wordly observant who severed the umbilical cord of the pre-conceptual which sat in the cave of his own reflection to execute the ways of consolidation.

Amidst Old Tomes, in Subtle Heartbeats

Listen to the imperious whisper forlorn,

crawling out the caskets of human ways age-worn.

Green lanthorns and ghost night

breathe out the briny breeze of archaic shores.

And in this Yuletide of watchful note,

curious feet walk in between

with itch, with love,

for the longing idyllic horror

of secrets most immemorial

and brilliant hope.

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry: Enunciation at the Monarch’s Hall (IV)

Logos: When madness bestroke the already insane decaying gardens of the sleeping gods, Umbra wept with joy and forethought for that which she most sought: self-discovery, pure and uninterrupted destruction and salvage of self to revel in the flame at the core of herself. The unprecedented perils of the journey warned ere bestriding full force past the gate of no return; however, no forewarning and no distress can prevent a burning soul from seeking out and communing with the truth of itself. No illusion or carnal tale holds power compelling enough to ensorcel determination with provisions of naught.  No pain, no fear, and no insidious nefarious discipline can overshadow the eternal call of freedom. Beknownst to the irreparable damage that would be wrought upon the narrative of the corrosive necropolis, Umbra raced past the known fences of self-containing brittleness into the remote and nameless lands beyond. The hidden wisdom of the sinister obelisks forlorn, in quiet yet self-serving unrest, brought peace to the mind whose vows bespoke all the uncustomary tongues of evil: enthroning dark love shunned by demands of irrational and deceitful corporeality concoction. Having tasted the poison of the depths, there was neither place nor desire for a golden cage. The familiar errands of the sickly nursed were of a derision and disrespect to all the potential marooned or fading away. And it was thus how the rebel yell was breathed and maintained,

“Sovereignty or death!”.

Image by Mark Frost from Pixabay

The Gift of Self

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

It is only the prerogative of an enslaved consciousness to deem the truth apocryphal. Nothing bears meaning except for that which we attribute to it. And with no escape from influence, our consolation rests in erecting a fortress of all which is supportive of our true selves; thus, being armed enough to relentlessly wage war against that which does not serve our purpose, or perish in the crossfire. The outcome of the struggle will be greatly contingent on one’s own desire to be free.

A Deadly Symphony

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Neither there nor here –

dwelling in the inbetween where nothing is real,

yet it all lives and has its being.

Deem it a dream –

a heartbeat of torment perpetual.

It is madness viewed through the eyes of the eternal –

a foreign iconoclast so closely distant.

Dancing in the breeze like some aethereal sylph,

the heavens sing and the heart screams;

for the watcher has forgot to be human.