sockdolager
“Your visions will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”
I’ve been in a terrible disposition the past few days. The week following the ceremony, nausea disrupted my schedule. It is the insistence of darkness erupting. I’ve kept it down; something bids me to the cellar. I’ve noticed every ant and cockroach. The scent of salt is the conceptual interpretation of nourishment. I ground by dancing and digging my heels into the blankets I’ve laid on the stone floor. I’ve recreated the landscape where I split. Static self-reflection: is splitting neurotic or necessary?
At this point, I don’t think the intention matters. The action is occurring through me regardless of my reception. Power manifests in the form of the microcosmic expression- I thrust, and the moon smiles with pursed lips. Half a face beams down over the dunes where the matted dogs and skinny cats follow my tread. My hands are wet with tears. I’ve stopped asking if the minerals are mine. I've lost track of whose sadness I carry. The mustard seed of the universe takes root without bias. Hurricanes unveil the heart of humanity; who will help those who’ve lost everything adjust? And who will profit from the suffering?
A man sits across from me with a camera; he points the long lens left and right, capturing what he wants to see. I conceal myself to reveal what I cannot touch- the source is only as sweet as the summit. What is outside of the frame never existed. The aspect of subtle embodiment is lost to those who filter the sunrise. God acts outside the container, beyond the reach of human experience. I haven't washed my hair since Josephine brushed it with her hands. Her bracelets sounded with small bells, the chimes in my ears awakening desire. Self-recognition is a mythic conversation; what I seek is created in all I perceive.
Kittens weep with eyes closed. Too small to take in the vastness of the world. To open too soon would be madness.
Photo source.
