Like putting your hands in a thick, warm jar of non-sticky honey; The magic of such a natural sweetness. The blood, so deep it is purple, feels familiar. As your hand wallows in the liquid warmth, you understand the safety. The gentle surge and drop of life stirs your heart in a peaceful, sleepy way. And you beam.
Fingers flex to breach the expanse of depth. I can feel the tiny Bean and hear the voice of something sweet. My heart expands. I roll over now, extracting my hand from the warm, gooey place; unfurling my fingers from around you.
My eyes blink open one-at-a-time, my lips pumping with red energy. I see you smiling back at me, with your soul wrapped around the soft, lumpy pumping of my deepest heart. Fused into life, I collide with you time-and-again. Whispering like the wind. Always known now, forever.
Everything changes and that truth forever remains. Ineffable. Being, so warm and sticky like non-sticky honey. Clutched between my milky skin and the shape of my thighs, I let you slide...
Good luck.
Monday, 31 August 2009
Monday, 3 August 2009
Psychosis Moment
There is a dark moment where all things collide in a microcosmic spectrum we call the mind. The mind is a tool, a place where we conceptualise ideas and wonderful theories used to become renowned around the world- what we term as ‘famous’. It is the place where we visualise so well what it is we want with our lives, with our physical self. A place so facilely becoming our prison cell. The primary infinity where our intellectual strings of energy meet, commute, and come into alignment. The light is either too bright or too slow and dull.
There is a moment when all that is the light, moves so fast in the darkest corners, highlighting what it is that makes one tilted and slightly weighted in the element of ‘twisted’. The light flashes to us the empty skull faces of the demons we choose to closet there in those corners. The light reveals the eyes which gorge into us while we sleep silently in our beds; while in another world, in another subconscious state our truth eats us alive. It is in those corners that the hordes of stuff sit lodged: between yesterday’s picnic in the park and this morning’s flap-jacks we flipped. There is a bowl of stuff that is painted amongst the cobwebs, holding the listings of dreams which we carry forward into our daily lives- it is the reason we are edgy today, or feeling somewhat otherwise tomorrow. But the conscious light side of the mind is blanketed by the nightmares of our underworld. And in this kaleidoscope of moments sits the truth: it is what we choose not to see, it is Our Shadow.
And it is only the mind and the tedious, mundane thoughts which rip into us and feed the Shadow, keeping him growing. Like looking at the vast expanse of an ocean besieged by an overlapping thunderstorm that has turned the vastness a pitch black, full of monsters and leaches that reach up and sabotage the beautiful moment you could have shared with a perfect stranger-would-be-friend; or wrecked the opportunity to rectify something magical with a friend. And the psychotic tides of the storm envelope your boat and swallow you up into the pits of thrashing lashes of earth worms. Your mind is too full of the tangled, gooey mess of worms to clean up. And eventually, after much bleeding and illness, tossing and turning, you hit the grey expanse, the aftermath of the storm: Boredom.
As suddenly as it had claimed you and driven you up the wall, it has calmed to give you something else: side-effects. You want to pull your scull out so that you can tear the thoughts and the matter out with your nails. And then scrape the matter from underneath your torn fingernails and toss it away. But the eye of the storm is shifting again. And you are hit by another ad nauseam wave.
The tears shoot out from your heart now, because the recollection of the memories, harboured like a treasure, start to dance in the madness of the moment. You begin to see the memories like trophies on a mantel. You begin to frantically throw them out, or smash them so that you can avoid the truth they now bring forward for you to face. In logic and explanations you find yourself losing yourself to your brain. Your mastery is too much- since the light is as overpowering as the dark indeed. You cannot hide. The truths of the ugliness that you are are there for you and the entire world to see and they want to kill you. You must die, so that they can die, there is no way to escape them.
And you start screaming. You are sure that you are not in what most would term ‘reality’. And you are sure that the scratching at your mind, the constriction around your throat, the wrenching in your stomach will cease. This monster cannot have you. It is all in your head, a small, miniscule place. Intangible to the wondrous light and beauty you are. You use the beautiful form of words to create another story as opposed to the story of this storm and its memories of how things were once, and how you now feel about them. You spit out the repulsive cliché that “everything is going to be ok” and that there really is “nothing wrong with me”.
But the hits keep coming, rolling over you as though there is no end. You keep running away and looking over your shoulder as you get further and further away, only to face forward and see that you have not moved one inch. And at that moment your entire brain explodes. Your matter is splattered everywhere. And you see your lover shot through the heart, as though it was you who put that bullet there because they deserved it, or worse yet- you deserved it. And you see your life strewn all over the walls in a bloody mess, reminding you just how messy it has been- all your dirty laundry out there so you can remember where and what you have been. And your enemies lined up one-by-one to tell you how you are ‘not good enough’ and ‘what a bad person you have been’; chanting phrases about clingy behaviour and psychotic explosions and incapability’s and character traits. Your loved one’s looking sorrowfully at you, and then you see yourself. And everything goes blank. You feel like you have been through nothing. As though the entire time you stood there before yourself and simply thought it all up in your head.
The absurdity of days and moments like this is that it is what drives so many to scatter off the wall entirely. The illusions inside the depths of a mind, one that sees too much, thinks too much and feels beyond human comprehension is susceptible to far worse than simple hysteria. You begin to reclaim these realisations as you start to wipe the last few tears, pick up the pieces of your skin, straighten the bed, open the curtains and brush your teeth. But the truth is that these moments and the storms one endures are real. The earth worms leap up and string onto your brain; your emotions scream until the voice is gone in agony. And there is not a soul to call upon. One can only give in to the mind momentarily, let it devour your very essence, so that you can acknowledge it and see it for what it is. If you fight it, or run from it, or escape it, it will take you away to other things which stunt you, destroy your growth or person in millions of other ways. The mind wants you to think about it thinking. As opposed to simply rolling in its mud and creepy crawlers, in its suicidal thoughts, in its self-destruction and getting through it, becoming aware of what it does as the emotions swallow you whole.
And sometimes this takes weeks, months, years. And we come out alive afterwards. When we laugh we laugh. Not laughing because we have to keep from not laughing. And the tears and hair pulling is there in that moment and then released forever. Nothing left to linger and fester beneath the surface like a rotting fungus growing beneath a toe nail.
There is a moment when all that is the light, moves so fast in the darkest corners, highlighting what it is that makes one tilted and slightly weighted in the element of ‘twisted’. The light flashes to us the empty skull faces of the demons we choose to closet there in those corners. The light reveals the eyes which gorge into us while we sleep silently in our beds; while in another world, in another subconscious state our truth eats us alive. It is in those corners that the hordes of stuff sit lodged: between yesterday’s picnic in the park and this morning’s flap-jacks we flipped. There is a bowl of stuff that is painted amongst the cobwebs, holding the listings of dreams which we carry forward into our daily lives- it is the reason we are edgy today, or feeling somewhat otherwise tomorrow. But the conscious light side of the mind is blanketed by the nightmares of our underworld. And in this kaleidoscope of moments sits the truth: it is what we choose not to see, it is Our Shadow.
And it is only the mind and the tedious, mundane thoughts which rip into us and feed the Shadow, keeping him growing. Like looking at the vast expanse of an ocean besieged by an overlapping thunderstorm that has turned the vastness a pitch black, full of monsters and leaches that reach up and sabotage the beautiful moment you could have shared with a perfect stranger-would-be-friend; or wrecked the opportunity to rectify something magical with a friend. And the psychotic tides of the storm envelope your boat and swallow you up into the pits of thrashing lashes of earth worms. Your mind is too full of the tangled, gooey mess of worms to clean up. And eventually, after much bleeding and illness, tossing and turning, you hit the grey expanse, the aftermath of the storm: Boredom.
As suddenly as it had claimed you and driven you up the wall, it has calmed to give you something else: side-effects. You want to pull your scull out so that you can tear the thoughts and the matter out with your nails. And then scrape the matter from underneath your torn fingernails and toss it away. But the eye of the storm is shifting again. And you are hit by another ad nauseam wave.
The tears shoot out from your heart now, because the recollection of the memories, harboured like a treasure, start to dance in the madness of the moment. You begin to see the memories like trophies on a mantel. You begin to frantically throw them out, or smash them so that you can avoid the truth they now bring forward for you to face. In logic and explanations you find yourself losing yourself to your brain. Your mastery is too much- since the light is as overpowering as the dark indeed. You cannot hide. The truths of the ugliness that you are are there for you and the entire world to see and they want to kill you. You must die, so that they can die, there is no way to escape them.
And you start screaming. You are sure that you are not in what most would term ‘reality’. And you are sure that the scratching at your mind, the constriction around your throat, the wrenching in your stomach will cease. This monster cannot have you. It is all in your head, a small, miniscule place. Intangible to the wondrous light and beauty you are. You use the beautiful form of words to create another story as opposed to the story of this storm and its memories of how things were once, and how you now feel about them. You spit out the repulsive cliché that “everything is going to be ok” and that there really is “nothing wrong with me”.
But the hits keep coming, rolling over you as though there is no end. You keep running away and looking over your shoulder as you get further and further away, only to face forward and see that you have not moved one inch. And at that moment your entire brain explodes. Your matter is splattered everywhere. And you see your lover shot through the heart, as though it was you who put that bullet there because they deserved it, or worse yet- you deserved it. And you see your life strewn all over the walls in a bloody mess, reminding you just how messy it has been- all your dirty laundry out there so you can remember where and what you have been. And your enemies lined up one-by-one to tell you how you are ‘not good enough’ and ‘what a bad person you have been’; chanting phrases about clingy behaviour and psychotic explosions and incapability’s and character traits. Your loved one’s looking sorrowfully at you, and then you see yourself. And everything goes blank. You feel like you have been through nothing. As though the entire time you stood there before yourself and simply thought it all up in your head.
The absurdity of days and moments like this is that it is what drives so many to scatter off the wall entirely. The illusions inside the depths of a mind, one that sees too much, thinks too much and feels beyond human comprehension is susceptible to far worse than simple hysteria. You begin to reclaim these realisations as you start to wipe the last few tears, pick up the pieces of your skin, straighten the bed, open the curtains and brush your teeth. But the truth is that these moments and the storms one endures are real. The earth worms leap up and string onto your brain; your emotions scream until the voice is gone in agony. And there is not a soul to call upon. One can only give in to the mind momentarily, let it devour your very essence, so that you can acknowledge it and see it for what it is. If you fight it, or run from it, or escape it, it will take you away to other things which stunt you, destroy your growth or person in millions of other ways. The mind wants you to think about it thinking. As opposed to simply rolling in its mud and creepy crawlers, in its suicidal thoughts, in its self-destruction and getting through it, becoming aware of what it does as the emotions swallow you whole.
And sometimes this takes weeks, months, years. And we come out alive afterwards. When we laugh we laugh. Not laughing because we have to keep from not laughing. And the tears and hair pulling is there in that moment and then released forever. Nothing left to linger and fester beneath the surface like a rotting fungus growing beneath a toe nail.
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