Heart’s Biding

Heart’s biding

Heart’s biding true
He said to me
Behind the curtain blue
You’ve captured soul
And made me soar
Inside, where we are two
The mirror to us
Is dancing there
It shimmers, gold dust new
And I still stand
As merry man
Because alas there’s you
From whence you came
And how you found
Might never, will I know
But as I am
You be the same
And ever shall we grow
Beside your side
On silver throne
And chalice filled to rim
You’ll find me here
Pressed to your love
Until the end of end

Samantha Craft, 2015

Where We Stand

We have been taught by the world our frailties and inherent flaws in  infrastructure. Shown time and time again how we ought act and how we ought exist. Everyone about has bought into the formulated truth, spawned by the select from a cauldron of greed and mongering. We are hungry, tis true, to find what we are in need of. But we are taught by the select that we are in need of repair; when in truth we are in need of union and acceptance.

Societal law breeds distaste and separation, and leads the blind by a pull-string, settling them down to graze in poisonous grass and to surrender their lives through intoxication. They, the many, are made drunken by distrust, broken dreams, established lies, and fallen pride. They are mutilated, from the inside out, with the promises of safety, when burdened again and again with trickery meant to trap them in mediocrity and an ever-established cycle of want.

We are taught to take and take, and to replace pain with substance. The substance doesn’t matter, as it symbolically serves as substitute for the fear bearing down on us. A fear, breed again, from the collective belief of absence, need, and various ways in which to fill the gaping hole which is us. Each individual speared and beheaded, without notice, and placed on a map of discovery. Opening up, repeatedly, the absence of nothing, and reacquainting self with replacement.

We have been made open, torn open, and slaughtered by a mentality of consumerism. Eating one another in hopes of sidestepping starvation. We are made to feel unsatisfied and unsettled, and then lead, as blind ones to the feeding grounds again. Lost in a dynamic play predicated and eradicated by the elite that gather in forbidden places and dramatize their power to elicit control. Those that know, know this well, and the others, are set in blinders—the fear of reality overpowering the mind’s reasoning to see the truth of matters.

There is a shield created, that keeps us out, a shield that is fortified by our fear, in which the mind keeps us from seeing what is. There is no better way to hide, then to create an illusion that forces others out by their own fear—their responses fueling the protective mechanism of safe harbor for one and all.

Here is where we stand, in a world undone by another world; the lost ones crying out for justice. It is a rebellion of sorts, centering in our hearts, and soon there will be an explosion, rightly so. And the elite, who circumvent their own causation, and create that which is for one and one alone, will soon bleed out their own blood to replace the blood of thousands before them sacrificed as one to the source.

The Heart and Hold

The reasons for the world are numerous, beginning with the heart and hold: the essential portioned out anomaly of absence.

All is as is and all is as is naught, in so being we perceive not what we want to perceive but what we have been programmed by external thought and circumstance to accept as truth.

What you see is not what you see, and what you believe is far lesser reality than one would have you believe.

And so it goes that we inhabit a land of ghosts, wandering to and fro as lost creatures of the night blood. Howling at the moon for reprieve, or beckoning whatever entity we choose to recognize lives beyond what we see.

For what we see here, is what we see there, in turn. What we harbor within is that which we harbor elsewhere. For whatever calls you to be becomes both your namesake and your laborer. Your slave and your captive split open into the duality of the master rising.

Can you not see that you hover here in between the zone of reason and un-reason, gambling with your soul, the chips you sacrifice the blood of all? You are not what you suppose you are, and furthermore what you suppose of others be far less.

You are essential in this game that you, and you alone, have created. For without the ability to move your pawn, say your tethered-bones, no game shall exist. And still you pull, with strings to heart, the chest outstretched from the withered body, leading you towards that which is desire.

You lead with your lesser-self, the embodiment of fear and fear alone, treading where you dare not say, into the land of dreams unspun by the potentiality of loss.

All is spurned from loss, and all sacrificed for the hope of dismissal of loss. Wherein the beings of light believe they are giving and re-giving in hopes of submission of darkness, in actuality they are abstracting and retracing to abstract residue of fear, hoping to disengage from that which does not exist, wishing to detect absence of avenue so the ghost manglers will have no path on which to rise.

There is an essence created when such devil-taking is found. Wherein the all is in search of light—the light be found. Wherein the all is in search of that which cannot be found, and furthermore the dismissal of such dissolved illusion, the obstacles are made naught by imaginings created by the abstraction of fear itself.

All is motivated by fear and this feeds the darkness further in his delight-filled hour of demise. And still, we dance in this time of fueling that which cannot be named, but still exists in the twilight of mind’s shaking.

I ask you then, in the name of the light of all, to cease the search of abstraction and begin the outreach of gentle eradication of the mighty one. To reach out in the hopes of creating nothing, receiving nothing, hoping nothing, and having nothing. To eradicate further the inspiration behind the reposition you suppose as truth. To take out what is inside that terminates desire whilst inspiring servitude.

For this too, this land of sainthood shall be thy detriment. For there is no way, no alley, for the chosen to walk through in the cloak of servitude, to uncover the answer.

What is Is. And what is to come has already arrived.

It is the many who are escaping the escape that will find the essence of reprieve. To leap beyond the boundaries, so determined mind-felt and mind-seen, and clip off a portion true of that which was before, the birthing place of light.

Can you not see how you hover about as lost souls united each, a martyr upon a martyr, each greater than the good, in sorrow or circumstance, outstanding the other with degrees marked as kindness or torture?

There is not contest that has started, neither begun or existed. Only you gather as if there is a trumpeting of sorts, leading you on into the victory of ages; some unseen battle to undo the undoing and unwind the beginning to reach the doings of an ending.

It is a puzzlement that buries you again and again in the chambers of mind and keeps you outside the truth of element.

For you were not born to be what you are to become, or to search for what is truth. You are truth, undone and un-started, without remembrance of the cyclic purpose. That being to undo the thoughts of understanding and the limitation of words set upon the reasoning soul. To leap beyond reason into the land of blithe, where demons lay ripe as flowers sprung, their scent upon us ravishing the way to destitute.

We are not here as chalice-given creatures to divide the night and scope out the wretchedness. We are the very wretchedness we demise. We are what we choose to create as enemy. With each division burying ourselves further in the soil that leeches vicarious boulders of blockages.

Take not from self what is born as truth. In turn, take not from what is perceived as thy enemy as falsehood. Believe only in the undoing of self into self, and the collapse of the universe into the birthing of all.

You are not what you know yourself to be, and neither is the other, lingering on the outskirts of your perimeter. For he is no less outside of you, than you outside of he. And all together you are one, fleeing into the darkness as blind geese without sky.

Trapped

Trapped: In the Circle of Linear Thought

Most remember times they do right and forget the times they do wrong. In contrast, highlighted are the times I do wrong and rehashed the ‘wrong doings.’ In so living, I still remember the ‘right,’ if such thing liveth. Though it be set in the backseat, akin to groceries packed and secured in ice. Forgotten at the moment, and recollected later, as required, whilst I am thinking three times at once: thrice slicing and dicing while producing multiple viewpoints and conclusions.

Absent, it seems, is the built-in protective ego-mechanism in which I selectively choose to remember events that highlight my ‘specialness;’ and following through, gone is the relief that is birthed if extracting my own wrongdoings and focusing primarily on the wrongdoings of another. In that I am not monopolized with the act of setting about to justify my own self and self-actions, instead I attempt to reason through my behaviors and find answers to the motivation behind my ways.

Thusly, during any encounter with another, I am set apart without choice; very much trapped in an arena of self-accountability to the extreme, a place in which I become cluttered with thoughts of what is right, what is wrong, and where and how blame is to be formed. Included in my reasoning, are the ins and outs of analysis itself, and how analysis is reflected within the scope of self-involvement.

I theorize, again, in a kaleidoscope of viewpoints, each brought on through experience, and seen in visuals, if in fact the act of self-analysis in form is not a substitute for the standard-process of hyper-focusing on the right of a person’s ways. And that in lieu of latching on to my rightness for a sense of worth and place in the world, that instead I focus on my exactness: the cornerstone of how and why I exist.

In this case, I worry some, anxiety creeping in, that indeed my thinking process alone, I have created my own prison of ego-bidding.

Wherein some use mechanisms of denial and rationalization to escape the reality of a situation; I instead highlight the denial and rationalization of my day-to-day encounters. I see to the core of motivation and expectations, and cannot live a day with blinders set upon. I dare say, even a moment does not go by without the harshness of reality.

Moreover, I am randomly subjected by the inner-workings of my mind, and to the complex review of if and when I might have not seen something as factual and actual. This leads to a downward spiral of analysis, in which I am not certain what is rational, what is truth, and what is reality.

As I know enough about philosophy and similar genres of supposed truth-seeking, through the love of knowledge, I recognize I continue to know less and less. This is what happens, as I face self and analyze self, with cautious discernment teetering away from the demeaning cape of judgment—I step away and attempt to scrape up that which is the noise of masks and cluttered confusion found in the camp of denial and rationalization, and stare whole-heartedly into the chattering rawness of what is formulated to be my momentary truth.

In this viewing I sink into a variant amount of self-inflicted sap, sticking to the corners of reason, whilst trying to grasp at something deemed ‘acceptable’ by the collective mass of consciousness. I waver here, between two spaces. To the right, the place of how others’ serve to escape the rawness of truth, and, to the left, the place of sinking confusing; in which, without roadmap, or such, I am forced to wander about, mind skipping, as body and soul appear trapped.

Wherein many cannot readily see their own feelings of pride and jealously, I see. I recognize stinging needles with the coming of pride, jealousy, and the rightful mate: envy. I feel fully. Enveloped, I can barely focus or breathe, on breath alone. The whole of me concaved and piled inward with an ‘uncomfortableness’ liken to a heavy weight inverted and pressing from the inside out. I am not able, or granted by some force—be it biological or so-called ‘spiritual’—to escape the feelings without first overcoming the sense of foreboding pain.

I am therefore pushed out of this state of being, in seeing the green of me, and placed outside self, made as analyzing fool whilst recognizing the entrapment of self.

Ego is boundless in his efforts of demise. Even the word ‘demise’ itself, when recognized in thought, before spoken, gives power to the form of nothingness made real. In this way I cannot understand how, in recollection, there were times I held onto pride. For now it is a poisonous, venomous solace that serves as false sense of escape from truth, and in so doing buries the reality of self-responsibility.

Wherein many subconsciously are attracted to and repelled by various elements in their environment, whether it be the liner parade of humans, or the sights and sounds of reality all about, I am rendered much awake and aware of my surroundings. Repeatedly, nothing is pushed beneath where I walk, least the remnants and surplus of the walls about me. What is made ready, and on display, I take. Capturing all that is about while wondering when the process will cease.

I am a fumbling “Intaker” of life. My proverbial cross to bear, seemingly, the net in which I harbor the excess of experience. And my sensory-system, complex in its making and undertaking, does not cease until the level of exhaustion is met. Once satisfied with the coming of sleep, there, too, in the dream-state, I enter yet another world in which all presented is masked in various amounts of blundered-bombardment.

I cannot exist without the coming of more and more. I cannot reason without the coming of an endless stream. My only reprieve found in the nothingness of thought and experience, a place so intangible that the wanting to get there itself both soothes and bears down on my soul-light.

Wherein memories, moods, recollections, daydreams, and the like pop up in the lives of all, and differing degrees of depression and anxiety render themselves as servant and slave-master to the wanderer, for self, and self alone, these emerging visitors, rising from the depths of experience, become subjects for further analysis.

I am not merely living at the singular dimensional-level. I am experiencing that which is beyond experience. And instead of finding refuge in the past, or the vision, or what could or what could not be, I am escaping simultaneously, or more so entrapped once more, in a land in which I am bearing down upon myself to find the remedy to the visitors: the cause and the solution interwoven.

I am scientist analyzing the remedy that could theoretically serve as salve or vacation from thought. I am countering self’s inflictions. I am figuring out, with casualness undone, a trumpeting of leads that might serve as my reprieve of mind’s process.

I am, in reality, trying to determine the makings of my own mind. Attempting to outreach the circumference of my reasoning and pull out of the circle of mind into the outer regions unknown to the common man: the region of thought that rests outside that which birthed the nations, the world, and the universe.

It is ‘within’ this area, outside linear thought, in which something that is ‘else,’ surrounds the something that is‘ is.’ It is the end and beginning of the numbers. It is the unsolvable.

And here I lay, in between again, where I ought to be, when listening to the masses’ call, and where I am, lost, when listening to the calling beyond. Here is where I rest my head, on the pillow of exhaustive recognition, my cheek pressed against the resilience of mankind, harboring the degrees of resistance, pain, and bitter-truths.

Wherein there exists a deemed ‘autonomic self’ beneath conscious awareness that remains silent in moments, in varying ways, my self that automates and appears, visits more frequently than the lot. In so that he rises in almost every dealing and with every breath. He aware of me and I of him.

There is no undoing him, as there is no undoing the parts of self. Each is a collective, and each is a part of the whole. And each, of us gathered, makes no assumptions of the other. None are wise. None innocent. None beckoned for calling or purpose, but each a collaboration of what has been and what is to come. All wrapped in an eternal giving and forgiving, a forging through the explosive nature of reality.

The assumptions of self are blundered, and laid to rest with the other unmaskings. All self-serving bias eradicated and taken out with the bath water. And as the human, too, we are erected in our behavior, made right in our action, as we sense we are being watched and observed.

For us, on the gathering path, we are always under the eyes of the mighty collective, and in this way the actions of the right or dubious and rectified further. For we cannot escape into that which is unjust, as the eyes of the all have settled upon us, consciously mimicking the moves of the union. And indeed, the pressure remains, to undo the awakening, and slither, as legless-rodent, back to the scope of our safe haven, where the blind scamper along as sheep branded for slaughter.

Uncloaked

Uncloaked

The opinionated folk deems his self more worthy than the next, more educated, more correct, more substantiated in his tethered-viewings. He is the man who ties himself to his beliefs as marionette to the puppeteer. Surrendering his last performance for the making of a hopeful sequel.

He stands on the cornerstone of his own reality, perched on a soapbox made of rubbery-soles; erect in his being, creating hurts, as he plucks out the feathers from those deemed ‘wrong.’

He is the judge. And his seasoned-eyes seek out justice for self, and for self-proclaimed truths.

He creates chaos through the subconscious quest to establish an enemy in order to make himself the victor.

He seeks out that which is wrong to feed his own tattered ego.

The more he builds himself up, the more he merrily tears the others downward into spiraling nonsense.

He latches on to one truth, and then another, exchanging viewpoints to suit his individual needs. Adapting his ways to suit his desired outcome.

He eradicates plans and schemes, even as he sees this not as so.

He is blind to his own ways, and thinks himself clever and keen.

He has an eye for truth, and establishes his world as so. Truth begets truth and all else in dangerous makings of others’ minds.

He knows himself, inside and out, or so he thinketh . And in thinking in limited scope, he believes he sees the world about him endlessly.

He is the maker of mankind and the destroyer, and he sets himself on high while wearing a robe of futile-humility. Though, buried beneath the cloakings are the mere wobblings of brittle bones.

He erects flags of righteousness in his name.

He is the enemy of spirit, as he claims his views worthy and right.

He is the enemy of self, as he hides in the shadowed sands, head buried to the reality undone.

He builds and builds an illusion in order to feed and feed that which is established upon as self onto self.

He becomes that which he wishes, and has opinion for all that does not fit into his gently spawned parchment.

His arrows are as ink on treasure map, pointing thusly to where the answers rest.

He knows, and he knows naught, and in so doing he believes he is the wisest of wise.

He layers himself in the latherings of riches, sought in the grounds of others’ burdens.

He is neither miser of gold nor pauper of the trenches; instead he is both. Combined, as the one collecting and discarding. Scooping up in ‘veracious’ heaps that which serves his truth, and throwing out that which does not.

He cannot see his weary ways, and instead labels the rest unjust and wrong, except the select few that follow his way. His light shone bright in the ability to feasibly proclaim his truth as collective truth.

He is not satisfied unless others see him, others hear him, others lift him and validate his existence.

His way is made the only way. And the others, though innocent they be, gather around him as sucklings to his tainted nectar.

He nourishes them with lies—his own.

He lures them in with a sense of belonging. And then, too, they become as him: stagnant in their youth, nurturing nothing and no one, and taking as they please.

They satisfy self to please self. They play with self to please self. They collect and establish more truths.

Until the beggar returns—uncloaked—he is made burdened with entrapment; invisible, trumpeting his drum. Pounding out the horned owl’s screech. Demolishing what is, in hopes of fissuring all that is the entrapment of mankind.

Formidable-forbidding. A lingering, unsurpassed longing, to surrender his making for the unmasking of the man beneath the cloaked resilience.

Elemental Cause

To give only to give, without expectation, without gain, without bursts of ego-gratification. To give without proclaiming, sharing, and classifying one self as giver. To just give, and know that in the cornerstone of heart, whatever ripple comes in return, is merely more energy set into reserve for future gifts. ~ Sam Craft

Elemental Cause

We are riding a wave of a collective unconsciousness that predicates actions, reactions, opinions, likes and interests, as well as disinterest. It’s mediocrity made insane, and semi-tamed.

I can’t help but see this all around me, from the fashion trends, to hairstyles, to the modern music craves, to the buildings erect and idolized. Divine design is all about; and yet we cling onto that which is perceived as the collective norm and acceptability.

Digging deep into the psyche, this pattern of behavior all comes down to the desire to be accepted and assimilated, even at its assumed worse; none is left untouched. Even the so-deemed ‘reject’ or dark sheep is masked himself, surely to be absorbed by another sort. If not the masses, then the anti-masses: the secluded seduction of isolation.

To be evaporated into the state of ‘not being’ in hopes of instilling a cloak to shield self from the chaos of being. Still this shield, self-made and created for the primary purpose of protection, serves as the resistance of what is not real. And the more one opposes a force, substantial or not in it’s reckoning, the more the force that is objectified grows.

In this way, the very act of retaliating against that which is perceived as wrong, or even ‘evil’, substantiates the existence of such force, and erects it as formidable in making. And more so, the process of chastising and banishing, even pretending the existence out of view, is equally detrimental—as the energy required to dismiss something from the mind, again substantiates the value of such.

Predetermination in and of itself seems to procreate and bring into existence what is naught. That is to say that the act of accepting something as so gives the mind’s creation power. The abstract made whole. The nothing becoming something from mere effort of mind.

The more one focuses on the abstract, the more the collective eradicates nothing into something. Whether this be judged or labeled as ‘good’ or ‘evil’ in theory makes no difference. For whatever is countered, in so countering the opposite thusly grows. In so being: if ‘good’ is countered, evil grows, but good also grows in equal measure. For the act of resistance, or the force of undoing, both equally grow that which is of primary focus.

And whose mind is to choose which energy is pushed towards the one, if not the other? Therefore if I focus on the sun—the light—the glimmer of whatever one chooses to associate with the source—I also, in equal measure, focus on that which is without the light. For to have light I must have dark.

To proclaim something is good, I must establish across the scale of justice that which is un-good. To have the un-good I must create and establish rules and boundaries. I must become judge. I must have basic standards. I must start somewhere. Or so it seems.

When in actuality, I am starting not. Instead, I am as climber on the mountain peak digging down into the depths and cores of endlessness, crumbling self and existing selves that linger about. I am tearing apart my essence from the inside out in effort to eradicate that which has been established is not enough and not ‘good.’

In this manner, I am my own avalanche. I am my elemental cause excavating below in hopes of bringing up that which is tarnished—the root explanation—the growth—the cancerous vector in which truth, once established, has been attacked and need surrender.

In unmasking a truth that is neither buried or alive, in seeking to find that cause that I believe is the unmarked burial ground of chaos, I render into exactness the very thing in which I wish to expose. I become that which is my enemy, in thinking my enemy is. I become that which is terror, in believing terror reigns. I buy into the acts upon acts that in turn render treason upon my soul.

I bleed out my beggar’s mentality in the very utterance of non-equivalent. In staking claim, the spot in which the flag bears my name and flies in high-wind is the same mound of nonexistent land that becomes my territorial truth. That which I proclaim as full enemy I proclaim as my reality. For whatever the opposite of enemy becomes, there in the act of proclaiming, becomes, too, my life-blood, that which in some variant degree, though at times almost invisible, I worship.

Tis truth, then, that in being, in thinking, in existing, I am forced to form sides, to single-out camps: those that are unbearable to the mind, body, and soul; and those that are acceptable, and often deemed desirable.

In order to set my mind apart from this useless game of mousetrap, I must first scoop out that which is the bait, the essence that captures first my appetite and then manifests my fears. For if I am deeming something desirable and in wanting, in exactness, still, I am deeming another undesirable and unwanted.

That which I shun gives power to that which I crave. In the same measure, that which I long for in dream-state gives recall to that which I dread. The unbearable stakes are set; and life becomes not of pleasure-seeking quest, though the game is curtained as so; instead, my daily burden becomes that to which I seek naught and find naught eternally.

This becomes that which I claim as real. And the real feeds off as stinging nettle to skin, lingering in pain-stricken cause with reminders of escape. The mind becomes the battleground, as in action; it begins as slave to sort out the mind’s cause. The it becoming the enemy of the it, when both were deemed innocent.

How this is, is. And how this is not, is not. And those that linger in this place of knowing, in their act of lingering, substantiate the facts furthermore, building a wall between that dark and light that serves as the landmark from deep space, indication that the war has begun. And the more the battle is spun, the more victims that are laid down in erect fashion. Standing as phantom ghosts as the shadows sleep in the ground that burgeons, spun from the fertilizer of demented abstractions of formed reality.

Here is where I walk, in the weeping hours, footprint after footprint, marking my territory as mine. When all the while the burial grounds seep blood from the sleeping masses of a thousand centuries.