The soul’s darkest night,
An absence of light,
Journey to the center of myself,
The past left behind,
Only truth I will find,
“Reality” left on a shelf,
With bruises and burns,
No stone left unturned,
I search endlessly through the night,
The breadcrumbs I see,
All pieces of me,
Reassembled, I reach for the light.
Image: Artist Unknown
We are nothing more than beasts while existing in this suspension, bound to our capsules, unless we resonate with the frequency of the universe. We must learn to project our consciousness, our being, our souls in order to transcend the confines of flesh, of borders, and this realm. Until then, the healing process can never truly begin.
Image: Kevin M. Gill
With my own blood and sweat, I have finally completed what I thought was a fence, a barrier to the outside world.
It is not until this very moment that I have come to realize, it was an enclosure, and I have forgotten to include a door.
If I speak or write and no one hears or reads it, is it still all in my head?
While it’s no secret, my adoration of the complexity of the English language, I’ve perhaps been a little too harsh on those that create their own variations.
In the midst of an identity crisis, I know I have searched and altered everything around me in attempts to find something I can relate to or call my own.
If acronyms, shortening, or altering language in anyway allows one to communicate with like minded individuals or create something that one can relate to or call their own, then it shouldn’t be perceived in a negative manner.
I have no excuse for this behavior, and therefore will not be providing any. Expectations will be equivalent for those who cross or embark on this expedition. Inquisition and criticism are not only welcome, but required. The voiceless will be spoken for, however those reluctant to speak will be expelled for their deficiency. No leaders, JUST followers. Followers of conscious illumination that conspires to extinguish the darkness they have reigned down upon us.
Image: Artist Unknown
Fire lights the sky.
Dirt, soft from burial.
No need to cleanse this new skin.
The eyes, they feel the same, though they are not.
Ever-changing shades, how different the scent.
Courses, taste bitter as usual.
Over consumption bleeds exhaustion,
Frailty and bruises sink, no room in the shallows,
My hangman, the Windsor, is calling.
Image: Alex Grey