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.

Two-fold Vision of Humanity

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Midnight stroke a symphony of two-fold clarity, as I paced around in silence while everybody slept. How amusing and how horrific had the picture of humanity appeared before me!


To fulfil our physical sojourn in this world, we seek to make ourselves of value by way of choosing and polishing a craft from which to make a living and sustain ourselves.

Such beauty, is it not? To be able to freely sculpt a fine specimen of a life provided the right influences be present.


With a vision and a purpose, creativity would know no limits, and we would weep with joy at the realization of our potential expanding like supernovas in outer space.

And then it came to me that the body of knowledge that humanity cherishes, all its inventions, are the product of the imagination. From the most academic endeavours to the more overtly artistic expressions, everything we have and have done has had its origin in a thought which has preceded manifestation. All the great accomplishments have had as base someone who provided something which was not available before.

Suddenly, it made no sense to me that such a thing called a job would be so stiff.

It was then that horror supplanted hilarity. We look like figurines running around and groping in the darkness of ourselves and the world around us.

Not only are there no specific rules by which to design life, but our lives are dependent on our imagination and our creativity to build something quite magnificent out of it instead of solely relying on pre-established institutions perpetuating models of reality that may or may not be of value to our lives.

If all be dependent on a sparkling thought, the birth of a new idea via myriad media of inspiration, we would ultimately appoint ourselves to be the prime architect of our lives.

But what happens when man is unleashed in his full creative expression without an in-depth realization of himself and the possibilities all around?

The untold may ensue!

For one, the wild sense of freedom may become so overwhelming as for us to feel trapped with so much potential at the disposal of our judgement and creative flavour.

There would be no one else to point our finger at, as this freedom would become our undoing or our greatest tool for major transformation and empowerment directly from our hand.

Not only would we be responsible for ourselves, free from past conditioned shackles, but the world itself would make us responsible for ourselves.

And from this would emerge the prevailing tendency toward excellence, for once devoid of the distracting excuses and fears shrieking from the bowels of our own personal hells – an excellence geared toward our success and satisfaction once we have embraced ourselves and recognized that we have all we need to be content already within us.

Nocturne Shimmering

Image by Ina Hoekstra from Pixabay

Crystal diamonds in cello night by piano notes.

Kaleidoscopes of hidden sweetness dancing

On the blackened walls of turmoil.

Here I see you, brilliant ballerina.

Spell of poison kiss,

Your lips and myrrh weave tales

In this shadow trance procured

By shield from daylight wrath.

And here you dance in my arms,

Fruitful lover who by sinuous tongue

Parts the gates of bliss with longing.

Feel me here,

The breathing memory

Of ageless cognizance –

Trails of love mid-air swirling

Under pale moonlight and wordless lyrics.

Feel me here,

In nocturne reflections

By the fish-pond

Hunting after visions of soul:

Eternal home.

Ode to Blackness in Red

Image by Alyona Uramuru

Icy rings

As wreaths gleam

‘Round the waist of him,

The Dreaded and Sublime King.

What joy it is to peer

Into eyes of coal

As mirror-lake

Of soulful tale

In divine lore,

In truthful hope.

What boon it is to sing

The sagas of the warriors’ spleen

Wrought into halls of conquest

By iron art,

By lead and fire.

Salt on your Wounds

Image by Saulius Rozanas from Pixabay

I am

Salt on your wounds –

The sacred opiate

To your mortal tomb.

Linger on my kisses,

The ebony wedlock

Of your ethereal wishes.

~*~

I am

Salt on your wounds –

Poisoned goblet,

Watchful shadow enthused.

Linger on my kisses,

The ecstatic union of death

Devouring fears from night

‘Till the rise of day.

~*~

I am

Salt on your wounds –

The Darkness of your soul

Tearing down the prison of the world.

Linger on my kisses.

Taste the sap of my holy vileness,

Your rightful lover virgined in

Sin and satin.

~*~

I am

Salt in your wounds –

The forbidden fruit,

The gatekeeper and key

Of darksome tide love

And nighttime liberty.

Linger on my kisses,

Wintry lips whispering

Over casket wombs

Of eerie spring,

Of olden alchemy.

~*~

I am

And you are mine.

Image by Dieter Robbins from Pixabay

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.

Twenty-four Degrees in Wooden Arrows

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were – I have not seen

As others saw – I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.”

“Alone”, Edgar Allan Poe

By lyrics unsung in the lunar springs,

I danced on the tongues of madness –

An epic eulogy of guileless tantrics,

The merciless eyes of acausality.

By prescient fires of ice and darkness,

The sea-floor’s vault was blown open.

The mortal coil withered in wonder,

And the world drowned in

The chestnut old

Of other-blunder.

No More

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Sky-lit serene

This eve doth sweep

My bosom clean.

In the alcove antique

Betwixt seen and unuttered,

Obsolesce the face of longing;

For the driving principle of becoming

The world teareth asunder –

In unmerciful carnage,

In unhinged disowning.

Sky-lit serene

Here toll the bells

Of truthful clawing.

Dark pit and primal donning

Ritualize the ways of knowing,

And the enslavement of the dove’s feet

Doth cry in rightful crowing

For the aberrant undaunted.

Sky-lit serene

This eve doth sweep

My bosom clean.

Sky-lit awoken

The nightmare steed

Wildly runneth –

Its mane is the flag

of crowning,

Its eyes are of

Daemon

growling.

Chalice of Diamond Ambrosine

Liquid silk enchants the earthly temples

Of spring-announcing winds.

The butterflies,

In their trail of watercolour reverie,

Have fled the solar furnace

To kiss the canvas of time

With sweet fullness of voidness.

The canticles of ecstasy

Awaken the master of subtleties.

The jaws of pleasure invite

The mysteries beyond to be revealed,

And in their sway of cosmic pathways,

Teeth and tongue hold the key

To the memory unseen.

Funerary Transit of Fowl Marmalade

“Come back here, you wizard! I’ll bite your cheeks off – those furnaces of rouge, those blood rubies of rabid youth!”, the wizard ran, and off I went to ensnare him with a knot.

“Come back here, you wizard! I’ll bite your cheeks off – those blushing maps of caprice, those burning coals of honeyed longing!”, the wizard hiccuped himself into a tree leaf, and off I went to seal him and bring him home with me, where I roasted him in guava marmalade and buried him in a chicken leg behind the fridge.

The Price of What You Want

Image by Harry Strauss from Pixabay

The price of what you want is not a price because a price does not exist.

The price of you want is merely a self-transformation for you to flourish into the greatest that you can be. And once you know what you want, you will never be able to return to where you were before you knew.

The price of what you want is to dare to be yourself unapologetically.

The price of what you want is to realize that, even in all as one, you are an individual of upmost particular value to yourself.

The price of what you want is the bravery of letting go of old detrimental patterns of thought, emotion, behaviour, and connections, shouting and bleeding, “I’ve had enough!!”, and revolutionize your ways to see yourself prosper.

The price of what you want is the courage to trample fear and look straight into the pitch black unknown unfazed.

So, come what may!

The price of what you want is your liberation from all you have ever deigned to complain about. You kindle your circumstances by way of your own reactive methods.

The price of what you want is to remember yourself.

Enough of empty words!

Enough of fleeting fantasies!

Know yourself, and see what you want fulfilled!!