Awakening, a process in which the delight of mind is spoiled
In the spot of the coil deep, a woeful heart toils
Not a same way forth is found
The road is woven backwards in sound
Safe is the wary toward the ground molded
Once broken is the shed of self sacrifice cold
Move into the glimmer of a fractal soul
Peace be unto you;
Primordial season to fall into a dream true
Hands a plenty
Scarred for the last… many awaken to come
It is of the void
They come from
Are all you seek
Ghouls and sheep
You are the weak
Tools are heavy in your mind
Gluttony causes you blind
Lust for knowledge, it is so weak
You fall into the pits of the sick ones
You are sick with poisoned, lusted, truth
That you cannot see past its own shelf of divine resemblance
Sadness decays a heavy heart
Heavy she is, but not so heavy to part
Parted cloth upon the wound
Injured clouds the humbled brood
My will is breaking. All I hear is sound. In creation, there is the destruction of the mind to become aware of oneself. My current obsession with the differences within sex, within what creates, and what was created, is it but a mere useless, and worthless thought? Confusion and frustration- two things between the lines- between the lines of something real like anger and certainty. I am asked if I care, what do I care about, such a mundane answer can only be given to such a mundane question. How can one care about others, who not cares about their own life? But to care about their life, are busy caring about their life, that others only fit in with a disingenuous routine.
I will not limit myself, nor will I raise myself up, for I am extremely susceptible, like all, to grandiosity, so lowering myself to the floor, has proved humble to me. Thoughts of destroying myself, the nightmares, the mental anguish, they keep me grounded, and they remind me that my creation was to sin, and to be aware of it, a punishment in itself. I am thus reduced to the categories in which were placed upon me before the womb; I am lifeless- genuine not, in my nothingness, in my place, in how the reality of change in others, perhaps, is so unattainable, and should not be sought after.
you are delusion, inside my heart growing
a poisonous thing, a murderous flowing
cold and ghostlike, haunting my conception
perception crying, deception horrifying
i give my warmth to the dead
is it me whose cursed, or is it in my head
the shadows pay their visit
telling me i was complicit; all but one
who instead is benevolence incarnate
brightly resonate, in darkness i suffocate
another thread i eliminate before its too late
such is fate.
It guides you between the light. Patterns glow and become disillusioned; they break away to become all that is simply Within. To become One with the Within is to experience that which is limitless – it can bring you into anything and everything – a guiding sense just as they are all connected, through a guiding echo that brings the others to life, embedded in our existence – in all existence. The music within the Divine reach, awakening, bringing each other aide of ours to life, is one of the most essential tools of our existence.
My mind is muddied and has been for awhile now. Confusion has not become just a state of mind for me, rather, a haunting ghost; one that looms over my consciousness constantly. Within the world of dreams, I am free without the leeching demons and striking of other forces, for what is given to me there should be given to me in wake – a world where my perception has not yet been fought for and won over. I am left to be alone even in the presence of the lonely. To bring these words to life – all of these words – is a sacrifice I must make for the sake of the energy they carry. Miscommunication. Confusion. Frustration. I suppose I should start getting comfortable with the shift of vision I have been given, as it may offer me a break, and is a new trial I may gain insight from.
In a barren, lonely world, one where humanity suffers greatly, there are but a few – perhaps but one – who will make it their journey to nurture the garden of humanity. These individuals are born alone, unable to connect with those around them, but gifted with the understanding of what must be done to pave the way to the end of suffering. On their journey, they are faced with many trials, and have the threat of losing their way dangled in front of them, but the prospect of the goal stays within, even if it is momentarily forgotten.
The reason they are born with an inability to bond with others – to be alone – is because that they are being prepared for the end of their journey – to bare the mark of a sacrifice. The individual is faced with a decision: to sacrifice themselves, to give up their ‘life’ – the joy, the hope, the relatability, to be free of loneliness, or to continue on, to not give up these things, and to therefore live in the illusion of them. This is an important part of the journey, the decision, because the preparation… the loneliness given onto the individual from birth, is given so that the individual can therefore experience what their life will entail when agreeing to sacrifice themselves. If the individual did not know what these things felt like, then they might not understand just how horrible and real the sacrifice really is. If they did not know, if they only knew simply of the negative implications that followed these words, they may agree unconsidered, and regret, and the regret would simply not be sufficient for someone to bare the mark with all that is within his will.
Surrounded with connections, seeing all of the things they sacrificed, being constantly reminded of the pain they will have to endure, this individual has now bore the invisible mark that the illusions step on.
The witch embraces her fervent instincts; nurtured by nature, feared by men, perhaps bribed by the devil, and put to the flame. From those that she assign Fate, so easily can she take it away; tears of prophecy that stir in the cup of men. She is drawn away from her natural gift by the men that fear her, imprisoned in their reality, and hiding from her own. Thrice she call upon the forces in which the wind is woven, gathering the might locked beneath her feet, to unleash upon those that hold her collar.
Hold her flesh, burn her heart, poison her mind – this is the will of men. Her will is stronger. The eyes of time give her power. In her palms, she holds patience; pain and suffering glide over them like water. Man tricked man; doomed forever to till the cursed ground. For responsibility is thrown eschew in the heart of man, and this is his punishment. Wicked was she who gave man his cures, for this was the very compassion that was kneaded from her bones and now lay untapped.
Throw your chin to the sky, woman, and open your eyes. Embody your nature, embody all you are meant to be. Throw away these earthly chains you have been imprisoned in, take hold of the clouds, take hold of the sun, of the moon, and gain knowledge through the teachers within the waves. You are meant to hold in both your palms what comes in twos, and your eyes will see all. She will reclaim her time, her beauty in nature, and fight for this freedom once more. It will be her time soon. Begin now. You are the host of truth’s potential.
The temporary state of those within the confined space of their own mind open up their consciousness to what they see in others as less than substantial. Although a temporary affliction can cause this new perception, one returns to the rest, having gained a new pair of eyes, and losing pieces of themselves that they must return to get back; the pieces that cultivate and shift in the eyes of absence. One looks at a whole as now hollow, and hollow as whole – though in this sense, whole does not mean more divine, rather, is a neutral word used to attempt to describe a way in which the view considers.
When one loses the pieces, they find others to fill their place until returning, attempting to search for their own, but are left in a consistent state of trade. One does not leave, but they also do not stay. Eyes that once cried for scraped hands now cry for hollow skies. Dreams became a movie; nightmares were always in wake. A soul never skims, only places itself within undiscovered frameworks. Leading it was nothing, for nothing can lead – and yet what nothing finds is the infinite everything. Two, three, seven, six – it matters not, for matter destroys these fragments that create one’s knowledge of its own existence – a paradox disguised as reality.
A return without stay is incomprehensible, yet it is where we are stuck; a limbo that one cannot ever receive, for receiving requires strength of purity that is unattainable by most, and for most, they are cursed to the isles, but blessed with the waves. You ride the wave, make a ripple effect, or you can play in the sand. Those that swim from the isles back to land, who return, are those that define the ripple. They are its essence, and what it stands for. The ripple paces the way for what is in of itself. Contribution is masked as futile. No more waiting.
the scribbles on the wall
nibbles runs across the floor
you were tired of it; shapes
wanted to think, wanted to stop thinking
to close your eyes, but the clock kept ticking
another night passes, no one knows
that you turned back time
and the clock stopped on eight
now i sit here, wishing to see what you did
wishing you hadn’t had so much power
clock faces the wall; i don’t want to see time
eyes shaking; ears occupied
you cannot be forgotten now
you have joined my ghosts
Most have it; more lose it: potential. To become aware of one’s own potential is to put oneself through a trial of sacrifice. If one so wishes to sacrifice themselves, to themselves, one now has experienced the foresight of limitless potential. Although, once this sacrifice is made, and ‘new sight’ has been gained, it must be tended to like a garden; for if left untended – potentiality is lost. Potential is the seed, water, the sacrifice, and growth, the truth.
Suffering and anguish are the sole benefactors to nurturing truth; and later, peace and harmony, as the period of rest. Much like summer and winter, they behave in cycles. Give yourself up to become a host of truth’s potential. Wasted potential is worse than none at all; it is the ultimate death.