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.

Arrullos de la Noche Pensativa

Del regazo encumbrecido

por las llamas del desafío

brotan rostros de fantasmas:

adumbraciones de la frente cándida

y la promesa larvada de un trino transcendental,

evocativas de la pasión inaugural

de un trayecto elemental

que anhelan la libertad de trenzar

pulsaciones de sangre vívida y éctasis lunar.

Labios de seda componen poemas

sobre las olas turbulentas de la oscuridad,

y el amante teje entre suspiros las esferas de su realidad.

El Grial de las Profundidades

Image by Ann_Milovidova from Pixabay

Dado el toque del abismo resplandeciente

bajo la mirada de la serpiente señorial

de los secretos a vela en carne inerte,

bailan como ninfas de cuello y holgura

con beso supurante y ansias de amalgura

esas lóbregas ligaduras – malhirientes asesinas –

en busca de quien por sombra y cultura huya

de esa voz – esa dulce lírica nocturna –

que alimenta los destellos del alma

y en sus latidos revela la vida pura.

Dancing on Graveyards

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.

Trick the Trickster Trickier

Image by Roland Nikrandt from Pixabay

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:

  1. 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.
  2. 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!!

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.

Architect of Peace

Image by skeeze from Pixabay

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.

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.

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.