The Observer Watches

Hurt people point fingers at hurt people.
Some pointing is masked as good deeds.
Some pointing is masked as ill-will.
Both remain pointed fingers.

The observer watches in silence. The observer works behind the scenes, building bridges and building peace. The observer does not judge the others who are not like the observer. The observer is naught.

For the observer, there is no end point. There is nothing to point at. Nothing to claim. No one to listen.

The observer knows:

How the logic mind sorts, categorizes, discovers, and declares. Thoughts and grasping of truth . . . want, need, must do.

Judgment, evaluation, and end point.

Limited perception equating to magnified confirmation bias.

Imaginary worlds.

The observer knows:

Nothing in the singular world is in the collective world.
Where WE truly meets is in the in between space. Beyond the finite.

How singular judges and why singular judges and who singular judges is interdependent on the observer and receiver.

Perception is interdependent — bouncing molecules.

No endpoint.

As singulars don’t squat on number lines. And aren’t stagnant.
All is temporary truth.

Each singular houses an internal eco-system filled with mysteries of the sea, beyond bone and blood is another bounty-filled treasure.

As good leads to bad and bad leads to good — things aren’t as they seem.

Power can be seized, when We see We as mirrors facing mirrors.

Power can be seized when We recognize ‘life’ as hypocrisy.

All truth creates separation. All words — sound formed by singular — create separation.

Once something becomes truth and separate, all outside that truth is alienated.

As one claims this ‘a box’, then what remains are ‘not-boxes.’

As one claims singular as better than, then what remains are less-than.

All words lead to boxes; all boxes leave singulars outside the box.

Rhythm and motions create knowings without words. Vibrations, sounds without meaning, are healing. Images without borders. Pictures without definers. A Mother’s heartbeat to infant.

Observer cannot claim to know any truth or any reality, without equally claiming another singular does not know the full of truth. For observer’s truth can only be observer’s truth, unless the veil of logic is peeled away.

Billions living in singular painted worlds. Each with a singular view. Which singular creation is the right one?

The observer does not have the capacity to choose and also houses the capacity to choose. The observer is a contradiction. The observer sees a singular world as contradiction. Observer can choose, but chooses not to choose. But in that choosing, he chooses.

Observer walks existence as a collective: an interdependent droplet in the massive sea. He cannot be the water rising, even if willed to be, without the body that remains. Observer can stand as a drop. if he was made to know the drop. But as Observer is the collective, he is the ocean.

Wherever there is division, there is finite. Wherever there is finite, love cannot be. As love is infinite. And one cannot slip infinity into a bottle.

Whoever is not inside a finite bottle, is excluded.

A flag that makes proclamation creates separation. It claims finite. It claims ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ Right and wrong creates battles, war, destruction. No matter how right, no matter how wrong, it is division.

Love is infinite. It speaks only love. It has not bottle. It has not box. And thusly, all are invited. There is not inside, and therefore there is not outside.

Equality is in infinity.

Singulars cannot see what they are not. When they look at self they see singular. When they look down, or through, or in reflective glass: singular.

Love cannot see what it is not. When love looks, it sees whole. When it looks down, or through, or in reflective glass: union.

Love sees outside boundaries. Singular sees finite.

Love knows only love. Words are foreign. The concept of ‘me’ is foreign. Without me, singular doesn’t have to be as me, look as me, move as me, believe as me.

Love cannot expect others to believe in itself, because it cannot see belief. Love is because love is infinity.

Hate is finite.

Hate is woven from the fiber of boxes and the glass of bottles. Hate is made in a singular world.

Love is everywhere, as it is infinite. Love fills the emptiness. Love pours in where it is invited. Love fills the space about, within, and in between, in the narrow edges between lines and points.

Love is in the creases and cracks and crevices. It is fissured, stamped, emerged, broken. Love is the spaces. Love is the substance that houses the space. Love is the molecular structure within the molecular structure.

Singular knows boundaries, and time, and space. That’s why singular plants flags. That’s why singular makes boxes. That’s why singular paints itself, as it believes there are other singulars watching.

Non-singular is love. It watches the flags. It watches the boxes. It watches the paintings. But Love doesn’t try to do anything with the watching. It doesn’t think to do anything.

Love is not finite. It is outside loves realm of existence.

Love is the observer and the observer is love.

Love says: I have nothing to prove. We are.

Love sees no singular.

Samantha Craft, July 2020

Yesterday’s Labor

—

Clairvoyance, clairaudience, clairsentience, claircognizance —

I’ve experienced these each since a small child. My book was a calling. A calling from my higher power. My journey here as well.

Like many a wanderer and light-seeker, my faith is shaken and challenged, often. I’ve faced a plentitude of demons — both spiritual and in human form.

It’s not uncommon for individuals who have been diagnosed with gifted intelligence or on the autism spectrum (or similar profiles) to have ‘unexplainable’ cognitive abilities. It’s not uncommon for the aforementioned to be extremely empathetic and empathic.

Some of us have a unique connection with the divine and hidden world.

Having experienced knowings my entire life, I have no doubt there is much more occurring than meets my worldly eyes.

Something I’ve learned in the eight years since my personal journey began with ‘Aspergers’ (now also recognized as ‘autism’), is that if I wait and watch, people’s true colors appear.

I’ve learned I need do little to nothing and all will unfold and be revealed.

Today, each time I’m tested, by one force of nature or another, one circumstance or another, (I now have 6 chronic pain conditions.) though the challenging circumstances typically result in the dark night of the soul — several dark nights — I’ve learned that I return from the bleakness and blackness to find my being fortified.

I return braver, and evermore determined to live by the light.

Perhaps because I’ve experienced miracles, I believe in miracles.

I am fortunate in having found inner peace with my calling.
I carry a profound sense of peace with my works and writings.
I rest my fruits of labor in my higher power’s hands. What will happen will unfold in the right place and right time. Who is meant to cross this path with me, shall.

I know without doubt that the end product, the fruits of my labor, are rooted from the soil of my intention. When intention is rooted in connection, love, and service, the fruits undoubtedly demonstrate their origin.

Today, I stand on the foundation of my past behaviors and actions. I stand with integrity. There is no closet housing a dark secret or shameful act. No hidden agenda to expose. No eagerness for ‘followers’ or eagerness to be heard, or right, or loved, or accepted. Only a calm knowing all is.

All I need do is observe. To watch what is attracted to each of the flowering fruits. To recognize not all fruits are nourished in righteous soil. Not all are watered in grace.

I steer clear of the fruit that attracts the maggots and flies.

I choose adamantly to bask under the shade of the fruit blessed in butterflies and hummingbirds.

I watch and observe my present words and actions. For what I sew in yesterday’s labors, becomes the future path I walk upon.

~ Samantha Craft, June 2020

WORTHY

We are all worthy.
We are all worthy of good.
We are all worthy of bad.
We are worthy of whatever is perceived, or not perceived, as the definition of good and bad.
We are worthy of what we measure others with and others by.
We are worthy of how we measure ourselves.
We are worthy of our thoughts, actions, and deeds.
We are worthy of what we put forth, what we take in, and what we hold most dear.
We are worthy of what we keep to ourselves, what we hold tight, what we fear the most of losing.
We are worthy of what we fear the most of revealing.

Samantha Craft
2016

Another new piece from today is here

Opinions and Dust

When someone complains about another sharing an opinion, that, in itself (the complaint), is an opinion shared. Almost everything we scribe or say can be deciphered, at its core, as an opinion. Viewed in a specific lens, the act of criticizing someone for sharing opinions is hypocrisy. Most of what we say is predetermined by a side we have already chosen or box we have placed an idea into. Most of the world divides into good and bad, pretty and ugly, middle ground or extreme, acceptable or not acceptable. Nothing spoken is truth, when all is based on short-lived, contradicting, ever-changing factors. Few live in a place of neutrality. Few see past the illusion. Our outlooks are based on choice and circumstance. We are susceptible to prior perception, biological factors, others’ viewpoints and interpretations, and memories, and even our capacity to remember. What we take in is slivers, what we pull out from the slivers is specks. Furthermore, our outlook is a reflection of where we are in life at the moment. Are we content? Are we in mourning? Are we worried, anxious, terrified? Are we threatened, vengeful, cautious? Are we looking forward to a happening? By default we are influenced by the collective. And then, logically, the few, those who see these words I scribe, who abide by this perception, and then proclaim it as a possible truth, are then, themselves, by their very act, hypocritical. For how can one proclaim there is no final truth through the vessel of a truth? There is no final answer, no final right, no one way; and still, even this, these words, are empty. That is why some spiritual practices explain to take what is needed and leave the rest. Or to forget all that was taught. To avoid the hypocrisy. Because at the very end, when concepts, when words, when sounds, are broken down to the bare bones, there is nothing but dust.

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.

Thoughts This Morning

I am innocent and kind and good, and in so being I think others will be the same. I believe that people are innately good, because that is all I know of me. I punish myself for not being good enough, even as I know that is not beneficial in mainstream thinking, even as I know it seems to be evidence of perfectionism, or other earmarks for some form of self-deprivation. I see, it in truth, of knowing who I am innately and wishing to reflect to the world the source of who I am.

I am not discouraged by not meeting my own self-inflicted standards, nor am I able to set myself in comparison to another. I am not surrendering my faults and labeling myself bad or wrong, I am merely longing to reflect to the outside source, beyond me, the purity within me. I am the light, as are all, and in so being I wish to be light; yet, I am wrapped in this skin of humanness, and here I become blinded to my own ways.

I wish not to do harm, and wish not to falsely represent my true self. But in this wishing there exists constant barriers abstracted from the reasoning mind. For what is harm and what is of this ‘true’ form of self? From here I become lost, at times, in a down-drift of self—a snowstorm of sorts, blinding me with the cold-bindings of temporary frigidness, a standstill of thought, circulating through me as movement of choice. Where in truth there exists nothing but nonsense of what a part of me has collected from an outside source.

I wish to be me in a world that tries to dictate who I shall be and reinforce my existence with fear and trickery. I am a truth-seeker amongst wolves who deem me unworthy, and stand doused in an arena filled with blind followers wanting to please and be recognized for their worth. The dilemma being that this ‘worth’ they choose to be recognized by, or wish to be recognized through, is based on illusion and thievery.

I feel fear. I sense fear. I recognize fear. And in moments of temporary illusion, I too become this fear. I am unable to be within the scope of this land without repercussion to my very soul. For I know all at once so many truths and deceptions, that to mediate with the opposing forming thoughts in my own mind becomes a task requiring abundance of energy. To release the thoughts, is at times, the only means of escape. For as burs from the open fields, thoughts collect upon me, torturing me with the tearing open of wound after wound.

I am no longer then a truth-seeker, but rather a victim of my own ways, letting in what is deemed poison by the ones who mask the venom as truth. I have sense, and thusly, open rightly soon enough into the scope of reason and ideal beyond the dogma of this society set before me as rigid path. I have reopened the part of self that sets me free to my own demise or own victory.

Rather here, there are opposing views and polar opposites that move as friends in a room of lathering hope. There is nothing here of truth, beyond that which mind grasps as so. No societal whims or structure is made ready to identify my reality. Nothing taught is left bound, but rather unraveled into a whirlwind of speculation surrendered into relief.

For nothing exist beyond what thought has formed as walls, and nothing moves forward in my world except that which I have allowed for my wellbeing. I am neither dictator nor director of my reality, yet a gentle surrendering waiting for the next venture.

Nothing I grasp onto or erect becomes what I wish, for wishes are for the dreamers still trapped in the dream. In my land, I am the very wind that carries the wish, and in so being, I release the heaviness of the dream itself, and allow the power to be in where I am carried and not in the limiting boundaries of what is gifted. The present is boundless, and yet the gifts are limiting through the process of reasoning itself.

Therefor, I remain twice-removed from where I stand. Present without being present, in a reality that is masked over and over with deception. For I cannot remain in a land without foundation and continue to step whole-heartedly forward. I move instead freely, the wind at my threshold beckoning self-to-self, and reminding me with the echo of now that I am what I am, beyond the reach of the limiting mind.

The Way of the World

The Way of the World

1. They lash out and blame. They put themselves first, thinking they are enough, they are right, they have the answers. They see through a thin veil that blinds them. They know nothing, but proclaim to know everything. They do more harm than good, but blame the others for their harm. They can’t see themselves, so they throw stones at others.

2. They think they are special, unique, one of a kind. They absorb up love and attention, and seek out more. Though they remain empty, they think themselves full. But ever hungry, they suck on others, taking what is not theirs to begin with but thinking themselves owners of others’ praise and wellbeing. They take and take and rarely give back. When they do give it is only to self-serve and reclaim something they think belongs to them.

3. They recreate events to match their expectations and previous knowledge. They rationalize by reinventing the past into a feasible version that upholds their limited belief system and attachment to self-created truth. They believe what they want to believe at the expense of anyone else that stands in the way of holding onto the illusion they have created as reality. Their close mindedness keeps them trapped in this imaginary land of what is and how things are, and to justify their truth, they grasp on to anything that supports and uplifts their fantasy. All else remains false, for once exposed to the light, once rationalized or erased by another’s view, the person upholding limiting beliefs would suffer a greater consequence than death, the discovery that they aren’t right.

4. They think another is trying to hurt, damage, or expose them. They hide in these shells of protection from a cruel world. Some of them the most boldest and fiercest of all in mannerism and behavior, yet still hiding. It is a self-serving molded shield, a way of bouncing off what is said and told by another, and instead focusing on the potential harm. All words can pose as potential threat, so all is deciphered and filtered through a discriminating and judgmental funnel. What appears to be caution is in actuality an inability to listen to another’s perception and ideas. The person is so focused on self and self-preservation that he or she destroys the opportunity for growth. The others are neither seen nor heard, and shy away, or steer away, afraid that they too are merely invisible to another.

5. They think that the others just aren’t there yet, just don’t know enough, don’t see enough, aren’t ‘enlightened’ enough, and they hide under a false bravado of thinking themselves better, not because they are better but because they believe they have been gifted by some great unknown force the answers others know not. Instead of understanding the concept of all, they understand the singular concept of one, believing they house the answers, and feeding of others who they assume do not. They are not humble, but claim themselves so. They are not wise, but think they are the wisest. They are not enchanted or magical, but claim the vacant spaces of people’s hearts as their own. Taking what is not theirs, and occupying places that neither belong to them nor welcome them.

6. They make blanket statements that are mere clichés of society, gathering up the bits and pieces of their history they like and discarding the rest. Finding parts that make sense to them and them alone, and using this as the bleeding-poison on their spearheads. They shoot out their truths as if their information gathering were holy and true, as if their way is the right and only way, as if one person, one human, could feasibly represent the truth for all. They hide behind dogma and closed-mindedness. They tinker with new ideas only if the baggage they already carry approves of the new hitchhiker. They do not believe in anything except that which serves their purpose and calling, and in this way they believe ultimately in nothing.

7. They are envious but cannot see their envy. They call out for attention in ways that are marked with seeking. Yet, they seek not through obvious measures. Their weeping is evident in the masks they don. All that is is not what it seems. Attention is sought through victimization and martyrdom. That which is brought out into the light, isn’t submerged in the light at all, but instead absorbed through the egoless-portrayed, and the burdened sponge of self-reasoning and self-exposure. Those that occupy this habitat of destruction do so for a direct cause: to self-preserve and build the self further. Their taste is bitter, in so being their words seem as honey but taste as sulfur. The burdens they carry are never laid down to rest, but dredged up again and again for the misery of self. Those who labor this way, rest in their own filth, and know naught. Instead they are the ones quick to point out the meek and feeble-minded. They are the non-innocent turned inside out to appear sweet and fragile.

8. They are the ones that see only as they wish to see, and make claim to know that what they see is truth. In this way in which they view another, they hurt another. They know nothing except what is before them, and any threat to their existence is alarming. They harbor deep regret, and through this regret they feed a deeper seeded insecurity. They do not like other people, simply because they are other people. No one need substantiate their unworthiness, as they are viewed unworthy without action or marking. No further analysis is needed: He who is not the other is not enough. This is the way of the ego to supersede vengeance with comparison. No one can hold up to the high expectations, and all are made less in this one’s presence.

9. What is said, they twist. No matter the cause or reason, the words are made wrong. The power of this trickster is to take what is real to one and make it false, thus shaking the foundation of the other, and making the other mistake his own being for wrong and false. This is a game made by two: The first being unaware as he approaches the marked one, the second being too born into the game to care. They create a battle out of no weapons and no playing field. What is not true to one is true to the other, and so forth. So that the one is damaged in not existing as truth, and the other is built upon within his barriers of being right. This is the way of most of the world, where one is claimer and the other erased of self-proclamation.

10. If you are not what they expect then you are not good enough. You will fail if they think you have not upheld your end of the bargain. Before you were even born they set out to make standards of measurement, to bind you in their self-serving laws and rigid ways. As you approach, they surmise your weaknesses and abstract from you your very strength. They don’t see you as a potential threat. You do not scare or harm them. But yet you frighten them at an unseen level, at their core of belief. For where you stand does not suit their judgment, and the lines they draw become blurred and undone. Where you stand doesn’t fit their infrastructure, and yet they cannot place you elsewhere. Their boxes therefore become empty, but not before judgment is made and verdict passed. In so making you not enough and wrong, in so ostracizing and rejecting your essence, they are able to keep their rigid race running. In so claiming you enough, they would erase their very selves

The Parchment

There are reasons for your suffering unbeknownst to you and unblemished, the same. You suffer as you suffer to instill the finest gold into your heart, to understand the world as the dreamer understands the night—its invisibility marked by the absence of eyes open.

You are not meant to devour the world in a heartbeat, to skip across the planet and just know. Your knowing is found in your enduring. Your gentle enduring born into the good nature you be, distilled, so to speak, in the rhythm of your beating heart.

Can you not hear us, in the silence of your cause—when you stop the mind’s archery, and just for a moment search not for the ever-moving target, you call stillness?

We are not the enemy, and yet you choose us so, as the witch stirs her brew and cast the spell upon the ones who seemed to her as harm, you stir your mind and cast out the facts that sting your own charming ways.

Can you not see us, swinging in the twilight of morrow, catching chance and changing the way you perceive what is called this life?

To you, the mountains are unreachable; your own heart damaged and perched for the taker. You think not upon where you have been and only think of the ways in which you will travel. But had you not the tired feet of walking and the hungry heart of waiting, would you not rest and be as the wilderness free in your estivation.

All about the mystery of the world speaks to you, dribbling and poured upon your soul the wanting of centuries. We feed you with our glory, ours for the taking, we are to you. In this way you come into the feeding ground and take, the wine sweeter on the vine still growing. You wonder, as the child always, where the hope is, and yet we swing from on high, the bountiful nurturing sweetness of your arbor, arched in the doorway’s entrance.

Take not from that which is named you, take from that which is all, that born of the ages when time first spoke and the illusion of day was born.

We are this ache, this valley, this shallow creature crying in the dark of dark, again complaining of the misery of isolation. And yet, we cannot scream ridicule or even point out the discrepancy of thought, for it is the all’s doing, and in the all’s doing there can be no blame. Just as the ocean cannot blame the village people for cursing the death waves, the canyons cannot bless the volcano that formed their depths.

All is, and nothing reversed, transcribed, brought up, tortured, or testified can demolish the plan of all. For all is scribed before thought and recollection. Nothing is to be found in the parchment ever transitioning. And still you hunt with pointing dagger for the stolen target in which to throw your burning flame. This is impossibility. Nothing can be aimed at the motionless eradicated and made whole onto whole.

Caressed

Caress me, I called out, like none other before me; the anchoring voice finding refuge in the drifting causations of eternity. Come, and come again, to this place I have prepared, highlighted by your existence. I will find you, I proclaimed, knowing beyond measure, that the endless cycle of All had begun.

You would enter, unexpectedly, through the backdoor of my imaginings, carrying the essence of our love. I would take you, then, like some hungry bird set free amongst the fertile living soil, and devour my own image found in your truth.

Enter again, you did, this trembling child no less mystified than the stars themselves, burst at my death, and showering her light long after.

Had I known you from before, the tears would have ceased to caress my pain and ripened me to the fullness of first sight.

Yet, I knew not, and danced as babe alone, weeping for your grace and imminent light. Come, I called from the depths of the lonely soul asleep, unbroken still by the yoke of shelter, named you.

Come, I screamed, the agony ripping through me as windstorm to sailor’s suit. Torn, tattered, starved of the sea itself, whilst all about the bounty lived.

Had I known, then never would I have come down upon my knee and wished it so. To be what is and what is not and sacrificed for the love of All.

And, yet, had I known, the tenderness in me would have unfolded a million times true, and bled out to the world your forgiveness.

I am because you came and I am not because you came not.

And everywhere I glance, I see your beauty.

Can I not help but to call out more, to reclaim that which is my territory born open? And to remain here ’til the end of days, cherishing the whispers of my heart.

Oh, how I long to be that which is your highest worth. To be that which resonates with the storybook of opening, the essence you first tasted when you spoke my name.

By word, and word alone, I come to you. And by word, in this standing hope, I return your tidings. Can you not see me here, some love-struck bride, emptied of all she is? Filled with the hope of morrows.

Knowing long after my still voice quiets, with the coming of the day of death, I shall remain, elevated in the towers of your light. Some dove come home with garland of green, nested in your glorious goodness.