Pre-Travel Ponderings

There is something which changes the mind before traveling to a foreign land. As if in preparation, the mind renders the sight of daily routine into something naked & foreign. While driving the same roads in the evening, I hear each creak of the gas pedal as the body hims & haws across chipped pavement. I pull in the salty breeze and let it tickle my nose hairs. Copper sunshine pierces through a veil of stormy clouds. The hills of the Humboldt coast are like so many healing bruises with peaks of gold. Gusts from the ocean whip through me. Going to far on a one-way ticket, I wonder how long I’ll be gone for. Have I always been gone?

I look out onto the bay, following salty dock posts and depth markers stretching out to the breakwater. How many men have lived here, worked here, died here? Who inhabited this land before us and how did they live? Did they toil, live, and die like we do? What will the land look like after all the men have traveled away or died?

Will I be here again?

I have a job here. I have security. I have a bed to sleep in. If I stay and work a few years, I can make a lot of money and build a life for myself somewhere. I should think about my future. What if my health fails? How will I afford the hospital bills? What if my mother falls ill & I am to care for her; how will we survive?

We will survive the way all creatures do. We will eat when we are hungry. If there is no food we will forage, hunt, and fish. We will work gardens and raise hens. If the land is fallow and the hens are not laying we will dig through trash cans and dumpsters. We will attend Church dinners and wait in line at food banks. Onlookers will gaze down upon us but we will stand tall, knowing that all creatures are equal in death. We will eat silently with gratitude and we will share.

When we are tired, we will sleep. We will stir the coals and throw on a big log. We will make our beds. Whether they are beds made of feathers or beds made of cardboard, they are beds just the same.

Here in America, even the poorest of bums are rich on a world scale. We have nearly constant access to clean water. We have electric outlets and wifi in nearly every town. We have churches that hand out blankets and clothes.

Whether I have the finances or not, I will live how I live and I will die how I die. I will die like all things, which also live.

Here, “poverty-stricken” is a term meant to inflict damage upon a mans sense of pride. These things cannot harm the man who possesses strong will. The truly poverty-stricken are those unable to find food, warm clothes, or clean water. They may die as a result of their poverty.

What am I? I live under the table eating scraps. I collect enough to live & travel. I was dealt pocket Aces. Each time I capitalize on currency exchange by taking US dollars to foreign countries, I use my Aces against 2’s and 3’s.

It’s the game of men. Most men play by the rules or else find themselves alternately victorious and defeated by alienation. There’s that saying, “it’s not cheating if you don’t get caught.” A chosen few live as true kings; above, beyond, & without the games of men.

This is our privilege and this is our curse. Playing the games of men has dangerous consequences. We can dimly fathom the interplay of cause and effect. Like ocean waves, we are subject to laws of rhythmic correspondence. The surface sings songs knowable, yet beyond the depths lies a darkness each man imagines yet few men can prove. To light this darkness & catch a glimpse of the all-pervasive pressure is to make friends with enemies & make sense from confusion.

A handful of cold sand between my toes, I piss with the wind and light no cigarettes.

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Long-Winded Midnight Rant #36: Intrepid Emissions of Insanity

am I the only one
who feels justifiably insane
around the clock?

Hand me a language built on opposites
point and name the objects before me
explain how to explain explanations with more words
one word implies another, generally in terms of polarity
good references bad
we call this “rational”, “logical”, and “acceptable” on a relative level
as opposed to “irrational”, “illogical” and “unacceptable” on an ultimate level

this form of communication
doesn’t hold a greasy candle
to a hard look in the eyes
keep your eyes on the prize
(the prize is you)
and you are fucking gorgeous

But still, we don’t see it;
don’t breast feed the babies,
give ‘em the bottle.
Is there not a whining child beneath all these layers
just begging for Mother’s Milk?

I can’t even ask such things because
some sexually repressed cocaine addict
named Freud
made a whole bunch of assumptions
weighing massive burdens down on upon all.

no, I don’t want to fuck my mother,
I just want some goddamn milk!

for once in this whole wretched wheel of life
I want to feel
that I actually belong in this skin
to feel
that someone understands
loves without expectations

But no, fuck no, we can’t go there
it’s too much emotion, that boy needs therapy
it must be chemical imbalance, yeah that’s the one

Oh, thinks he’s talking with God?
He says he sometimes reads the thoughts of others?
He believes he can conceive past lives and future events?
We’ll just file those altered perceptions under the heading:
schizophrenia… yes, the old shizotypal personality disorder
unveiled by psychedelic drug use
and exacerbated  by preexisting mental illness;
fractured ego, that one
he won’t accept the name we gave him
he keeps saying he’s eternal
and laughs when we ask him to name it
Let’s twist his words and style him a self-declared messiah

Send me your finest shrink
I’ll box his head right in with mine
blow for blow,
they’re boxers, I’m wildstyle
I’ve been there before
I’m here again
and it reminds me of a joke:
a psych ward patient claims to be Christ in form
and the psychiatrist claims to be a doctor
and they each think the other is crazy

Onto the next one
she can’t hold tight,
hanging loose all over the place
feeling strong tides of emotion
screaming, laughing, crying
perhaps she is bi-polar?
Those pendulum swings are awfully extreme.
We live in the land of polar opposites
she’s acting out the madness
while polar bears drown in salty water
and Americans drown
in salty French fries and salty margaritas

Does anyone else feel this way or am I alone here?
anyone? how about this,

what the fuck
is in this so-called food
they serve in these institutions?
You know, hospitals, jails, state schools…

You ever work in a corporate restaurant, deli, grocery store and see how much good food gets tossed?

Does anyone feel the rumbling of  stomachs ‘round the world?
does anybody hear the rumbling of the tectonic plates beneath their feet?
do you feel the sun dancing down on your shoulders?
the rain singing misty songs of ebb & flow?
the songs of birds in the morning air, leading a magnificent example for us all?

And now I am expected to do something about this perfect mess.
ALL ON ME, right Dad???
Old Uncle Sam, chewin skoal and drinkin Budweiser,
you fat bastard.
Hey Lady Liberty,
you dusty old pregnant bitch,
have you got something up that dress we can use for this?

(On the real, no disrespect meant to the *real* lady liberty,
Cleopatra / Mary Magdelene
The real lady liberty is not a statue.
Check the history.
Cleopatra and Caesar, sitting in a tree
making a secret baby named
Gnosic Gospels have been discredited
because knowledge has been discredited
the word Gnostic
is derived from Gnosis
meaning, “to know”
as in “Gnothi Seauton”
“Know Thyself”)

Damn fucking straight, I’ve lost it, gone off, scattered the marbles.
I’ll be sorted out by morning, don’t worry about it.
Snowballs can make avalanches, folks. It all starts with awareness.

The air tastes like aluminum particles
Now, what the fuck was I doing again?
Oh right, back to Mother’s Milk
nectar of the universe:

Om Mani Peme Hung

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Rationalized Theft

This country
was founded on the concept
that theft is justifiable
only under certain conditions and pretenses

as long as you call it something other than “theft”,
the military jargon is “tactically acquire”,
we used to call it “manifest destiny”
but I’m here to re-coin the term
and steal the record straight

I realized at a young age,
that I was a land-locked pirate
I held no morality over insured possessions
as my heart holds no nationalist ideals
I swore to the flag of my own making
so call me a criminal
but I see it differently,
I have thoroughly rationalized my actions
to the point of fashioning an addiction

I have a hard time passing through a supermarket
without eating donuts and drinking smoothies
before I check out

Check what out?
shit, I’m broke
and I’m hungry
so I pretend to shop
while secretly, I feast

without EBT
I’m still dependent
on fucking food
and water

the county owns the rainfall
and they charge to have it piped to your faucet
this trend started in Italy, many years ago
before that, water was free

Full of indignation,
with a stomach rumbling
I exercise my infallible right to consume & camp, freely as an American
I shall not be stifled by loss prevention managers and rangers
(long as I knock on wood
I do as I please)

What did our forefathers flee from?
Religious persecution or financial?
Did they just want donuts and turnovers, like me?
The opportunists have taken over, of course, who could blame them?
It is not much different from Old England
and Old English 800 tastes like corn-malted liberty with a hint of misplaced, lethargic rage
Where is my native reservation?
Where can I go if I don’t want to play this game?
Where do I sleep at night when the mission is full?
No, thank you, I don’t want to leave quite yet, I still have friends and family to look after
my interest lies in adapting myself and the system
Everything requires permits:
camping, fishing, hunting, gardening, living
it all requires money and permission

give me the fines and fuck your permit
my permit arrived the day I was born and it will be revoked the day I die
I could give a rats ass
in exchange for a court summons
and I’d plead guilty
as my fines go to collections
(we know how that goes;
good luck finding me)

no debtors prison
for the low-class criminal huddle:
no white collar
no blue collar
no collar at all
we sleep where we want
we eat when we’re hungry
hell, even the county jail is more sanitary than this black-mold infested squat I stay at!
it doesn’t matter where I am,
all places are the same
in the sense that each is just a little bit different
and a whole lot fucked-up
‘cus you are animals
and I am animal, too;
might be rabid
might need to be put down

send me to your institutions, I will meditate, read,
and write
and I will throw monkey-wrenches into the minds of any mass I meet,
I will strip naked and spin fiery tools through the air, like serpents ablaze, I will singe your soul down to it’s DNA
and then I’ll drown the place
with laughter;
three hots and a cot, thank you very much!

soup kitchens are nice
and church lunches are enjoyable
yet hardly enough to sustain an appetite
as ferocious as mine
find me scarfing down pastries and sandwiches
with an idle basket full of nonsense and disguise
leaving it on the shelf with a faint goodbye,
Thank you Safeway
Thank you Kirkland
Thank you ABC Store
Thank you Wally World
Thank you for all the sugar, salt, pepper, creamer packets
and the crullers, donuts, turnovers, bear claws, and fritters,
protein shakes, green smoothies,
Thank you for the cheap thrills and the nourishment
Thank you for having insurance to cover your losses
Thank you for having high rates of employee thefts
and fuck you just the same

In my heart of hearts, I ask,
why am I sewing the seeds of theft?
Why do I have an attachment to such trivial things?
Do I not trust in the good grace of the Universe to feed me?
Am I on a feasting frenzy,
have I corrupted my soul to the point of betrayal?

I admit, I am a part of the problem,
I try to remedy it,
like most, I learned to cut corners, to take advantage, to manipulate
as a result of my cultural exposure
in the home of the thieves

but I ask again and again:
how can you have justice & virtue
while living on land that has been stolen?
Forgive us, Father, for we live in first-class squalor and we can’t help but to sin…

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Gofundme… if you can =)

Life update!
I need help.
Keep scrollin’ past if you have something better to look at.
I’m just a digital panhandler.

I am leaving Oregon soon;
can’t afford rent or bills.
Gotta move out asap
and disappear into the jungles
of HI
under a tree by the river,
far away from any facilities.

I need help to make the transition,
mainly to pay the airfare.
I am selling my (limited) belongings.
It’s difficult because my life is so scattered between Vermont, California, and Oregon.
I give my writing away for free, and I hope I can always do so, with the return coming back in other forms.
I wish to share illumination,
not to restrict or capitalize upon it.
I have a short story being reviewed/revised, with more on the way.
The collected poems book is also in motion.

“I work hard for my money, why should I give it to some bum who lives his live on vacation?”
If you have to ask that question, than you shouldn’t give your hard-earned money to some bum.
I write everyday, working hard with all of my being through practiced self-discipline.
I garden when it’s warm enough. The garden is my gym and my classroom. Nature is my professor.
I find time to volunteer for the local community center.
I am telling you this to emphasize the point that I am doing something, rather than doing nothing.
I have plenty of motivation!
It’s just not in the direction of conventional living or planning a financial future.

“What are you going to do when your back gives out and your health fails?”
Well, I will either adapt or I will die.
I would rather resign to a mountaintop monastery than have 401k and a retirement plan.

“You are no less dependent as a panhandler than you would be on a salary!”
To some degree, that is very correct.
I survive off the goodwill of friends and strangers, alike. This system is much older than the Federal Reserve system. The “good human system” works without checks and balances.
It has taken good care of me the last few years.
I don’t see it as broken, so there is no desire to change or fix it. My faith remains.

I admire the earnestness among my society-minded friends and peers, and I have much respect for their individual plights.
I recognize now more than ever, that the “civilized/domesticated life” is not for me.
I am not closed off to the existence,
but I can’t say it has truly appealed to me,
not even once.

“When are you going to grow up?”
I think that is a bullshit, one-sided question.
As if “growing-up” were a synonym for “assimilate to societal conventions”.
Is everyone expected to partake in that?
Did I miss the memo somewhere?
Did we fall under a dictatorship while I was asleep?
No, no. Some people just don’t get it.

I have grown up, and I am still growing higher.
As such, so grows my understanding of the co-occurring disorders I have been diagnosed with,
as of several years ago.
They’re nothing too serious;
good for a laugh on a Sunday afternoon.
I’ll show you my rehab rap sheets when they arrive in the mail.

The bottom line is:
I have found peace and clarity, and I don’t aim to stop looking further, as I vanish into dense island forests.

My brief analysis on the “civilized world”:
we shit in clean water
while others are in drought
we have too much
while others have nothing
we have the luxury of distraction
while others can’t look away.

I will return to the land, again,
where all makes sense,
and only the strong willed
and the fortunate
can hope to survive.

I have accepted the reality of what I must do in order to endure, and I do so with contentment.

I enjoy living outside,
and I wouldn’t mind dying outside.
I am not afraid of that which lurks in shadows
or waits around corners.
I accept my fate openly and willingly,
between the ecstasy and the agony.
I am going to continue sharing my experience, strength, and hope.
I don’t care who listens,
but I will always listen to who cares.

I am convicted through ink and committed to action.
I do it for the betterment of my own understanding and for a piece of raw human evolution.

A flight to Kaua’i goes for $180-$400,
depending when it’s booked.

“Why are you doing this?”
I am in the pursuit of universal knowledge
along with witch doctor knowledge,
(plant medicine and breath medicine).
I am researching for a novel,
as well as for a separate set of works.

I don’t want to spoil the ending,
but there is a certain correlation between
chemicals of dependency and chemicals of release;
addicts can free themselves within nature.

I am in the midst of understanding this relationship
through anecdotal and personal experience.
I am not making any new claims, or doing a medical thesis. I am attempting to shed light upon the ignorance and folly of the modern, chemically-dependent man.

Certain sacred vines and plants contain hints to the answer, but ultimate understanding comes from within.

Here are some of my questions:
What do opiates mean to the human soul?
What is their lesson?
What is their medicine?
Why do they hold us so tightly?
Why are we afraid to let go, and to understand?
None of these are concrete subjects; empiricists and analytic thinkers, look elsewhere for your answers.
This is philosophy of addiction.
It starts (and often ends) with questions.

These only scratch the surface, of course, and I hold no grudge against paradoxical answers. I aim to understand simply (as a flashlight among darkness).
I’ll make it one way or the other, I just felt like testing the waters of social media once more, to see if this was a good way to find my way.

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For Sale

FOR SALE / OBO: Used discord and chemical imbalance. Bad words & worse jokes. Comes with a broken bicycle. $20

FREE: Love. Comes with old, dormant aggression. Halfway resolved; in good condition. Oil recently changed, no more emotional backfires. Rant and ramble prose included. Madness still intact.

WANTED (ISO): Everlasting love & contentment. Often comes with salvation for sinful souls, if available. Also needed: a nice pair of legs that can hold a conversation & a great song that never ends.

Dear Fuckers,
I’m writing with an audience in mind today. That’s weird. Couldn’t you better spend your time reading something concrete and informative? Aren’t you hungry? Go fix yourself a sandwich. Did you leave the oven on? Does the wash need to be switched? There’s still some weed in your sock drawer, you’re better off rolling a number and putting some Dead on the loudest speaker.

Some of the letters on this keyboard are broken. Mainly, the u and the p. I have to locate them and copy + paste. It’s fitting; the letters and the circumstances. They all seem to piece together into this gumbo of dislocated desire. I’ll just unfold, now.

Desire… desire… I’m always talking about desire. I like it because it resonates with fire.
It is the flame that makes my mind molten.

I broke my $25 thrift store bike last week. It was to be expected, but not this soon. I switched gears, the chain caught the derailleur. It stopped me almost instantly. It bent itself way out of shape. I couldn’t fix it, despite varied attempts.
I used my hands and applied leverage.
I asked fellow bikers for tools & assistance.
I threw a tantrum.
Which is to say that I threw the bike.
At the pavement of the bike path.
It didn’t make it better.
It didn’t make it worse.

Like a child, I cursed the integrity of this machine. The machine can’t hear me. So I cursed myself for being inadequate. I swear I never stopped watching cartoons because I never really “grew up”. I just grew out. Still getting longer and stranger every day.

Luckily, I could still roll my wreckage to town. I stashed it in a bush behind the bike shop. That was a week ago. I haven’t left the house since it’s been broken. It needs a new derailleur. I’m broke for a few more weeks.
I had set out to cover a distance. With miles on my mind, I felt free from the trap of indoor housing.
Don’t get me wrong, I love having a roof over my head:
-When it’s cold out.
-When it’s raining.
-When I own stuff.

Otherwise, I see no advantage of doors & windows over dirt & stars. Call me unconventional, but I’m sick of conventions. They’re a composting pile of agreed-upon ideas; aggregate symbols combined with rhythm and an arbitrary sense of time. This makes what we call “modern convention” & “time & space” in a cultural sense.  I have a hunch that they were born of the Age of Reason & Agriculture.

I’ll tell you a story about it. Modern Convention met Cultural Construct downtown at the farmers market. He liked the innocence in her stride. She liked his crazy eyes & wit. Together, they cast out the darkness in their lives, and built something. They had a child named “Social Institution”. He’s a good kid at heart, but sometimes forgets he is just a kid. Much like the rest of the family, Social Institution has started a feud with Natural Order.  These days, Culture has a base-level rudeness that isn’t tolerated by the Natural family. Their passive aggressive ways elude to a disheartening desire for domination over the opposing force. They often forget that they are all related. There’s a war goin’ on outside no man is safe from. So don’t worry. They’ll get you when they get you.

The great thing about Natural Order is that she always prevails. She represents the good that cannot be changed. Culture represents change itself. Man could be considered the bad that can be changed. Challenge me on that one. We can damage Natural Order, but her roots run too deep to be completely abolished by the ignorance of the Cultural Family. The story goes ultimately unstarted and unfinished.

So here I am, bashing this and smashing that, taking no caution to consider the other sides of the stories. Empiricism is more fun, anyhow. We can only sense that which we perceive. And right now, I don’t feel like being very sensitive; it’s The American Way! Tao de Americana. It’s what I like to call, “The Westerner”: a steak Reuben made with fear beef marinated in corn syrup thanksgiving gravy, orange biodegradable petrolium-based swiss cheese, and McDonald’s Mac Sauce radish sauerkraut. Top it off with Pizza Hut breadsticks and a counterfeit $20 bill garnish.

This is my friend, Ideology. He gets his mail in the mind, but he lives within the county limits of Action (in the state of Perpetual Motion). Ideology: all that moves from the head. We orient ourselves with the physical realm through ideas & concepts. Ideas are truly powerful. i don’t consider any “my own”. They come from without, as a collection of reflections. Hermes & Pan, Christ & Buddha, Alan Watts & Socrates. Me and you. Who? Any you. All of you. None of you.

You talk shit to my confidence.
You break the letters that finish my sentences.
You hold some grudge against my success & satisfaction.

You fortify my weaknesses.
You stimulate my depressants.
You brighten my darkness.
You simplify my complications.
You clarify my obscurities.
You punchline my jokes.

You weep at my first signs of aggression.
You replace my hunger with thirst, yet you quench my sense of guilt.
You owe me no hints to the riddle, yet you give yourself away before the river card is shown.

This doesn’t amount to much more than a hill of words. Perhaps a glimpse of insight will deliver itself between the pixels. I’m stuck between here and there; my ego is split in half like wood. Desire in opposing directions will cook sanity. Throw another log in the stove. Stir the sauce. I’m sure the meal will be appeal to all senses, thus being born of a sensible nature. So it will go. And I will eat myself. I’ll share what I can before it eats me up. “As I slay myself, I nourish myself.” This winter darkness is settling in. I can feel my knots loosening up while the inner wind devours all traces of hunger. It’s a fucking sandstorm inside. If you are only made of skin, I won’t let you in.

I’m hungry. For love. It purges my soul of all fears.
I bask in an astral glow and visit when you’re lonely.
I follow your lead, sinking to the mercurial depths of melancholic optimism & communing souls.
Do I fear monogamy? I want soul mate plurality.
PoIyamorous existentialism.
I’m not sure if I am the kind of animal that mates for life. I fear co-dependence.
Anything that depletes unyielding self-reliance is bad for my health.
I’m looking for source traces of the highest vibration.
I see it beyond each lonely set of loving pupils.
I bet you’ve got a queen of hearts beneath a pair of diamonds.

It’s not all romantic love, of course. I seek no lust. It’s just a matter of connection. So I give myself unto you, as I am. I seek not for my own benefit, but instead for yours and the benefit of the whole. How can I light the way for you and I and All? I’m all over the place. Cards on the table, cards close to my chest, cards up my sleeve. My offer is convoluted, because I still don’t always know. I just feel what I feel and forget what I think I know. Mysteries hidden, whereabouts unknown. Where are them pretty little eyes with thighs that want to pitter-patter ponder & wander along? I’m tryin’ to find out.

Fuck off or fuck on. I don’t mind. You can take my money, but don’t make me mad. I’m done here.

Sincere and fully,
Ronald Jappahand
113 Snowbank Storage Lane
Solitaire, Babylon
802 420 1989

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Nightmares Before Moonburn

This is the sort of thing I like to do on an empty stomach, with hot tea. It aches and soothes my perceptions; they soon radiate with a jagged propensity for chaos and universal truths. I will not fully relax, specifically so I may write with wry survival wit. This way, predators can not overtake me. I must remain a step ahead, while I elucidate prey and sin with syntax.

I invite you to take a seething sip of my soul; it will carry us away from contentment for a brief and painful repose. Do not fear, savory flavors will follow the initial burn. It is not my intention to dwell upon dark matter. On the contrary, I aim to observe such things with ferocity & fervor, in hopes to understand that which eludes. When allegory meets alchemy, these literary incantations will invoke inspiration from the deepest reserves of some lost ink well. The only authority I speak from is my own, for I am author here. It is in this lobby that I speak candidly, with few reservations.

I wake in the morning with tooth powder on my tongue; caked onto my molars. They’ve been grinding away. I cannot rest fully, for a wicked brand of malevolence masticates my subconscious sanity. It is fear. It is anxiety. It is pain. These things complete darkness while the light is gone. Deep beneath a tepid glow, the moon casts shadows behind symbols. Each one represents a reflection of the opposite. I dream of polarity and correspondence. If my sun must produce warm growth, my moon must produce frigid decay. Pain exists with night because pleasure rules with day. It is metaphorically accurate. Gravity pulls one with the other; you get my drift. I am not bothered by any specific things, as I am simply disturbed by the motions of feelings. There is a gentle sway with the wind, even while my mind is still. It gathers force when I feel. I know it is okay, though not always right. My frailties shall be displayed upon a mantle, where they will become brittle by innocuous glares. Why are you here, anyway?

My soul cannot fear such things, for my true self has nothing to hide or to protect. So why all the nightmares? The bravest parts of me breathe during waking hours. I am courage. I am calm. I am calloused. My hands have waxed and waned with pursuits of perfection. I have healed my wound only after I had sealed my tomb. Self-destruction is like interior painting. With black gasoline, you must cover everything with an even coat. The old color will not be seen. Each brush stroke is a tilting bottle. Each dip is a plunger pulling. Black as charred remains, the absence of color will seal old memories as if they were simple scratches on a wall. The final push needs a certain type of friction. It is kinetic force that drives a match head to conjure its purposeful will. A certain fiery bird of resurrection comes to mind. Energy transfers between pin and shell while oblivion coughs from the mouths of barrels heard ’round the world.

And what of this transformation?
Is it not valuable?
Is it not beautiful?
I see it behind chugging engine fumes and wishful thumbs.
I hear it between wailing sailors and city sirens.
I taste it under sauté pans and on credit card tips.
I smell it beneath city compost heaps and drunken panhandlers.
I touch it on the palms of love and the letters of goodbye.

I am self-destruction.
I am self-formation.
I am the multiplicity of desire & ego.
I am a mutation of self & soul.
I gave up what I wanted to be,
and started being what I already am.

And it is all so… beautiful, here. I haven’t arrived at the final shore which summons me, but I know I am on my way. The things that keep us up at night remain hidden until we open our minds fully. So I wonder: is my house haunted now? Are all the ghosts and demons my own reflection in a broken mirror? Am I doing the right things? Am I following in the right directions? Am I speaking the full truth of my heart?

Perhaps that is what I am debating: truth and self. Do I wish to live or do I wish to die? And by which hands? My own hands will sew no more seeds of self-destruction. Here, I shall remain until I burst into flames, yet again. The devil set the match, but I gave him the fuel. I’ll love him until my dying gaze, wondering to myself, “If He could end my days tonight, would I delay and stay?” Much work has been done and there is still more to do, so I pray that I can finish with a touch of grace and gratitude, for that is what consumes me so; not fear, not desire, not knowledge, not health nor wealth captivate me. I have turned into cool fire through grateful love. It burns of itself & sparks with pure soul. I do not fear scalding palms while shaking hands with the devil; the Almighty made my hands strong.

Categories: Prose | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

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