Footsteps have trodden through avenues sundry. And by the carefully nurtured flame where the master’s trail has fallen, I often wonder why life’s elixir rides on the centaur’s toxin.
Apparently, today is the first anniversary of my arrival to WordPress, and the birth of the Nocturnal Versifier. I had some conceptual knowledge of the season, yet time itself escaped through the masks of existential atavism and continuous obsession with mastery.
Contrary to the name, the Nocturnal Versifier was either wept, frustrated, or itched into existence by day, close to the all-pervading golden rays of one late afternoon. And if I am honest, I had never thought I would create such a platform to have my words readily available anywhere in the globe, just as I never thought such a thing would be spawned and erected upon the corpse of a family member.
Cheers to my aunt for the lugubrious inspiration! She opened the door for a more engaged poetic expression. Even though I may distrust her incorporeal representation, it should be known to her and to all that I am grateful.
I never knew my aunt favoured any song in specific, just that she adored everything Chayanne related; therefore, I leave here a song to her honour and memory.
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!!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.
“¡Sí se puede!”
I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.
Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.
Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.
Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.
Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.
I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder — Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.
Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.
With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.
I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.
Insanity brings about chaos.
Chaos rebirths order.
Order kills sanity.
And so the cycle goes.