~ No picture! Nothing could ever represent it. ~
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.
The crepuscular light daily sets the stage for a new pilgrimage past the mouth of Abyss into the throne of a Black Sun, which abrasive sublime rays sear away the confusion of the day; although it may as well strip the heart off desire bent after object and natural course and edge. Here in the darkness does reason bathe in purity, and conviction’s resolve illuminates the beclouded use of breath and focused target.
Donning the crown of the depths, there is no escape from the timeless folly. The frolic of pretence enrobes and weds the conscious insanity, and the tarred alchemical tears are, each one, a perforating spear from the pilgrim’s reflective pool of inanity.
Dawn is the archetypal succour for the children of the golden orb, whilst in its embrace the offspring of chimerical antics run erratic, in pain writhing, under the blistering light of consensual literacy.
As if past ghosts dwelt still
in the willful caverns evergreen
to sanctify a heart
with the glacial touch of sleep.
Alas! Does the weeping trickle
through the breathing whim
of promising lands which,
by masquerade aside, exonerate
the uncanny aberrant.
And by art and fervent sacrifice
of briny diamonds in the clash,
does the wisdom of the fool
parades before the fire sword
of heretical command.
The wolf, the shadow, and the moon.
Stigma hominum befogs the mirror
of Exalted Harmony,
yet the glowing markings of pathwork
will always tune the melody of salvation
were one to know how to listen.
Murmurs in the daytime speck,
kaleidoscopes and swirling strings of otherness
summoning the rising of the abeyant armies
through the yearning veils into the chamber
of nestling consciousness.
Murmurs in the air,
spectacles of colours and silhouettes
dancing ‘fore the heart whose river has run
into the high seas with nothing more
than the tearing love for the Black Star
which underlies the theatre’s spotlight.
Murmurs murmuring ever
the disavowal of tales oozed from opiate crevices
of malison and true derangement.
Murmurs of the innate throne
which hand pries open the torture room of sol.
Murmurs, quiet memories of dusk –
the revelry of Soul bleeding art
into the listless ball of fleshy command.
It is undoubtedly there, amidst the crawling shadows creeping through the maze of what we call our minds, that we truly find the most valuable treasures.
I pushed myself through the feeling of indolence immediately after waking up and recording my dreams; thus, abandoning my bed and engaging in all immediate rituals of self-care, eating something, doing the dishes, and brushing my teeth last. All of this without allowing myself to complain or formulate excuses and muse about distractions.
I realized two things today:
- Indolence will always be there, and it is my responsibility toward myself to rise and conquer it every single day through awareness, will, and vision.
- As I washed the dishes, I plunged into my head, observed, and interacted with it on regards to my dreams today and to myself with the conscious push I exerted. Looking to my left and reading the label on the honey bottle, I realized that it meant nothing to me. Even the word “honey” was empty. Like this, I became conscious of the secret to self-control and discipline (quite note: control is not punishment/depravation, but management) on regards to food consumption, any action, or any aspect of social conditioning.
- Resistance only begets compulsive surrender. It is when things such as labels and actions mean nothing that we truly observe, that all temptations are rendered powerless. When everything means nothing, then do we consciously decide what to do next. There is an absence for the need to react because the stimuli mean nothing, and we are set on a vision we have made for ourselves.
This last part places me, however, in a spot where I must pen a side effect to my own processes and deductions. And that is an insidious feeling of rebelling against the insight/knowledge/wisdom acquired when thinking about it or attempting to teach it to other people and see how it can help, a feeling which strangely translates to resistance and compulsive surrender. This insubordinate is nothing more than a childish saboteur, a remnant of some subconscious programming that indulges in hoarding all effort and revelation because it somehow has made it seem that sharing tips was the way of losing them.
Well, let today be the day in which I take this saboteur to the guillotine!
I want to watch its head roll off, and behold the execution platform be bathed in its blood!!
Callous angel –
tears made dry –
nourished by the blood
of the children of dawn,
slaves are the portrait
before eagle eyes.
Evil angel –
walking night –
scales of steel
narrate the path alight
under the marching moon
which conquers the veiling
of torched fireflies.
Hellish angel –
laughter mad –
spring is the cradle
of rainbow pastimes,
a will o’ the wisp –
a theatre of mirrors
and misty hearts.
Sovereign angel –
versed in poise
enframing the sequence
of eldritch chorale,
hey ho the blade,
the rust and the scent!
scream in pain,
yet no wave pierces
of the pitiless.
As nightfall paints the world, I relish the peace before the storm. A distant dribbling basketball marks the pace to trance and mindfulness in this precious silence. It will all be tainted when the front door opens, and the artificial lights turn on.
The dribbling ball has stopped. There is only the infinite silent chiming in my ears.
The first star has appeared in the last moments of the dimming sky. A bittersweet dull sensation grips my heart. Are these my feelings, or am I channelling the essence of those I watch from the booth up the theatre of life? Is my savoring of quietude now a torture within me burning? Do I wish to be ravished by the storm?
At least, it would be done.
At least, it would be past water.
At least, I would know the extent of its atrocity.
All sunshine has surrendered to the imposing darkness. Praise the fanciful romance everlasting! The cold floor has hardened, but it cannot be thus for longer, and-
Nevermind. I cannot further my observations in sainted silence.
The door opened. The artificial lights turnt on. The storm came, and I am bored.
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.
Wail the winter of thy harvest.
Forbear to sacrifice the sun to the hoarfrost;
for the river ran its course with the autumn laws.
Bleed upon the tombstone of thy own core.
Withhold thy kiss from the lips of loss,
and thus thy hands from the sepulcher of love.
Return to the void whence thou crawled’st,
and with thee take the subjugating chains of conscience.
Illusionist and woe of serpentine discordance,
be exiled to the gutter of the fallen!
Remember what was to thee promised:
there is no life for thy venomed calling.
The skeleton is scattered upon the old carpet.
The closet’s door is blown to shards,
and blood is splashed on the wall.
It trickles down to the spinning floor.
‘Twas I who dragged out the bones –
for retribution, for pain, for a love much higher than the taught self.
And I look at myself,
“Who shall hoist thee better than thyself?
Return to the earth
through the sacred fire of willful vision and rise, dear Phoenix!
Rinse the ashes off thy vibrant plumage,
and continue where the fight challenged thee last”.
Be ever mindful of your speech.
All you say and allow in – even music – acts as a spell upon your being, and not all influence is there to benefit.
Quiet the mind, and learn to listen.
Take control of yourself, and be the master creator you were born to be.
Fear is an illusion.
Despise it and rise above it.
Transmute it into courage.