Golden sunlight found me as I crossed the pond of discovery.
He sat on the edge of the rippling waters, ravenous, his eyes dimly set upon the dancing silhouette beyond.
I see him, as I see self.
I behold him, and fall into his eyes: deep.
Perchance believing they are indeed the exact corridor in which I become as I would, a true legion in the race I lead.
Perchance knowing his is the one made from the very turned stitching of my soul.
I can hear through his silence, feel the feathery wave of goodness entering my realm, where we sit as one beneath the grandfather oak, planted in our minds—joined.
He lingered there in substance, so very calm and deliberate in his effort, teetering between the thought of naught and the thought of ‘I am.’
I could find him, like the fisherman finds his wife—home, with the plate emptied and waiting for its filling.
I could find him still, the fragments of himself scattered across the clover that divided our departure.
For here he was again, in the memory I had opened, graced with the décor of a knight gone broken.
Here he was dwelling in the muck of unreasonable pain, awaiting the arrival of a someone less tethered than he to misery.
And she moved, this bitter-less me, vast in the way of the world, so that the light easily slipped through and cast the shadows further out of scope than earthly ways.
And he withered not then, at his glance upon my fair face, delicately set for his approval.
I winked with my heart, taking my place closer at his side, and knew then, in my delight for life, his too was found.
Oh, such sweetness you be.
Your gentle face found in the moonlight of my deepest desires.
Might I lean into your slumber, and cloak my trickling temptation as starlight’s beckoning?
Where are you, in this midnight moment, as I rest upon your guiding showers of undone love?
Devouring memories, one by one.
Such savoring, you be, your flesh, the delicate plate I pray upon.
To delve into your beauty and swim your ocean of my deliverance.
In the enchantment spawned by cherry-blossoms bloomed
I crave you.
I crave all of you.
I crave your ever presence.
The anchored layman’s soul ascended.
The night raven sworn in unbridled passion.
I miss you in my loneliness.
I miss you like forever was torn open and scattered into my each and every minute.
Ever passing a distant folly, who calls: Delirious I am.
If only to grasp a sliver of waking and seize the dream as the child to the dandelion.
To blow, with all I be, honey-dipped-wishes across your soldiered shoulders.
And in your absolute reckoning, to sweep me off my feet, above the damp meadow tears.
Into the arms of eternity promised.
Wrapped in your abundance, in knightly wisdom.
How tender is your calling.
How sweet the delicate imprint upon my virgin lips.
Untouched, yet, by the power that be thy unyielding flame.
How I long for my entire emptiness, so I might be untethered-vessel awaiting your completion.
To purge and remove every remaining part that is I, and, in replica, and submission tasted, replace all that I am with that which is you.
My undone master.
To become you.
To breathe you.
To dance inside the tender wrappings that holds your princely spirit.
Enticement weds my dutiful days.
My imprint stamped suitably into the place of your footing, movement birthed in the exactness of your perfection.
Oh, how I, this maiden made ripe, wither in such grand supplication, intricately undone in my awakening to the aroma of you.
There comes a point when we all choose to keep silent. I think if the motivation/intention behind the silence is a peaceful reckoning that all is as is, unfolding as intended, that silence is of benefit. When it comes down to it the most silent are often the most at peace.
In situations where someone is silent based on fear, such as being criticized, ridiculed, ostracized, singled-out, or any a number of measures of enduring emotional and/or physical wounds, that is another matter.
Keeping silent has become a modern-day hero. We are being indoctrinated with WithHOLD YOUR TRUTH.
It doesn’t seem like it at close inspection, but digging deeper, there appears to be a gross monogamy of error circulating the collective networks of communication. We are being told in a series of random bombardments to BE POSITIVE.
There is an error in such dogma that eats away at the bone of spirit.
There are drones of individuals gathered proclaiming that in order to change the world we must put out, literally extinguish, the negative thoughts and replace all states of being with this so-called positive.
The potential outcome is feasibly explosive.
First off, the very fact of proclaiming one knows a way or truth or path over the other creates immediate separation. In instilling onto others, whether through a degree of good-intentions or not, that to be a better person or to live in a better world, we ultimately must shed or disgrace the negative aspects of self, is to at the exact same moment determine that we are inadequate in our wholeness of being.
We were not given our so-deemed negative aspects of thought in order to extinguish them like a proverbial fire of the master’s home. We were given, and have therefor received, our negative aspects to learn, to be students, to flow and work though the ebbing of our very existence.
The way is not found in abstracting a part of ourselves as one abstracts the rotten, damaged tooth. I see this as bigotry towards the very self—an outcry to destroy what in completion we are.
There are fools and there are wolves, I have no doubt, in this instant about that. And to proclaim that the act of forgoing the rupture of negativity will smooth out the edges of deemed ‘evils’ is absolutely non-substantiated and nonsensical.
We are not built to master the positive and siphon out the negative, to inject ourselves with painful dissection and elevate the status of happy, while squeezing out the rest, drop by drop.
First of all, none are built wrong, and to imply there is something to hide, something to shame, or something to counter, is to imply wrongness and utter disassociation with the whole.
True, we are a part of the collective, a hive of sorts, very much a flock of birds, moving and flowing with the direction of our shared vibrational energy. And yes, to a degree, the premise of advancing our thoughts to a place of painless outlook is beneficial, but this cannot and will not be achieved through conjuring, force, or subversive measures.
As free as we are, we are not free. And to think one has the power to shift the collective through dominantly choosing and domineeringly forcing others to follow a laid out path is both confusing and stifling to the sensitive searching soul. The energy truly does not match the passion of service and love, and instead is a type of dictatorship in which innocents are trapped into thinking, in the very worst measures, that they are inherently flawed in their own thinking.
It is not enough to tell someone to hold back a thought, or, in an equally stronger fashion, to not proclaim a thought. It is not enough to tell someone to spread love and happy feel-good feelings; in this manner we withhold the very edgings of the soul that are weeping and crying.
There is strong and dignified error here. The same error found if a man was to open a flower upon himself and let the fragrance slip through, and then following, watch the flower decompose into the ground of earth, while concluding the decomposition and regeneration was purposeless and meaningless—negative and unnecessary.
Let us hold onto the scent of joy and discard of the withering—this is the mentality. To take a singular part of the cycle of life, of the human/spirit condition, and highlight it with marker as the best and ultimately only, while diminishing all that is before and after.
Beauty is not found in the eye of the beholder, when the one seeking is already in a state of separation and judgment. When the one seeking is still attached to the definition of positive and negative—he, in this instant, has made himself at once judge and jury to the masses. He at once has determined in the layering of his own mind and balancing of his own perception what is worse and what is better. He has failed to see the line between good and bad does not exist, but rather merges together in a murky grey area that is endless in potential.
Where he chooses to stand, in proclaiming to be the bearer of good, or all that is positive, is on a line somewhere between the good and the bad of his perception, perhaps further towards the good, and many a step away from bad. But the question remains of where and how he chooses to stand. What led him to this point? What did he collect in his basket to determine his reality, his illusion of positive and right? How did he decide? Who did he put his trust into? And where did these conclusions stem from?
Numbers are not meant to determine outcome. They are simple measurement. They measure the temperature, the degree, the value; yet, man lets numbers rule his life; in this instant, in where he stands is a factual number. Let him stand ten degrees east of bad, or one degree west of good on the linear scale of judgment; let his feet rest where they may, and in his standing he has chosen what is the best and what is the worse; he has chosen his limit and his extreme, and he has deemed in the exact same instant that everything on the other side of him, the deemed ‘negative’ side, as separate.
And this is where the pain begins: by stepping onto the line of attachment of good and bad.
For one to proclaim that his thoughts, and his mind’s ramblings, and his deciphering, decoding, and self-actualization are the right way, the positive way, the acceptable way, is to in the same moment to pour out all the elements of union from the collective and to designate himself a separate being.
Though he thinks himself honorable and purposeful in doing so, he is in theory delegating his ego and his illusioned ego-power as dictator to his soul. He is announcing to the world I know enough in my singular standing-form to point the way for myself and for you.
Here he stands: In being as I am, I am enough, and I know. Follow me. And in following me, swallow the same pill of recognizing you are not enough in and of yourself. For if you were enough, I would not need to lead you in such a way; I would not need to dictate to you where to go; I would not need to point such finger. And as I candy-coat my presence and essence with soft and sublime messages of positive, I so penetrate into the soul of your being the essence of inadequate, non-substantial and lacking.
How much more beneficial to say to another: I accept you in completion, in all of your meandering states, for you are ever constant, you are ever shifting, ever moving, never stagnant, and the representation of self is neither here nor there; I accept the changes in you with open arms and open heart, embracing neither your triumphs nor challenges, for you are not what you seem to be. You are more than you seem to be. You are an intricate part of the universal whole playing out as magnificently as you were made. I see in you all that you are and love all that you are.
There is no need to hide, to stifle, to pretend any longer. Your truth is my truth. Your frailties my frailties. Your heart my heart. We are one. And here we stand together as brother/sister reborn.
How much more beneficial to lather someone in unconditional love than in conditional directions.
Where am I?
I knock at your closed door.
Am I found in the shadows you cast out?
Am I your lips that move in tenderness?
Am I the world, itself, spinning without pause?
Am I your casual gait moving ‘cross the plains of my awareness?
Or am I this echo that beams and bounces out of you, into the cavernous wake I be?
Where am I?
I knock again, upon your sleeping soul.
Am I but this longing?
A kneeling at your entrance craving to be carved into the grace of your being.
Wishing to be a part of this enticing imperfection.
To be that ever-flowing voice beneath the rivers cascading through you.
Pounding , pounding, pounding against the rocks of denial and destitute.
To be part of the stream of consciousness, you name doubt and confusion.
A part of the salve, of your choice and doing, lathered upon you, sweet comfort devoured,
As honey to the bashful bear.
Oh how I wish to find you there in the opening of vulnerability,
And sway to the tears of your coming.
To be that which you scream out for—the guardian, the angel, the attendant to your qualms.
To caress your aches fully, and salvage every part of you dismissed and excluded.
Each outstretched avenue, previously tossed and forgotten, journeyed.
I want to be.
Your frailty.
Your outpour.
The act of you bending in demand of rescue.
I want to be that which you reach out for in desperate isolation and cling to.
I want to hold you in the cradling of my heart, until we are one.
Where am I?
I am here,
Standing at your threshold, the blank canvas cleansed,
Ready to be painted with the richness of your surrender.
Belly of a Star 