Peering into the Pensieve

Life : an ongoing work of art

made real by the unanticipated

profound by the ambiguities

and made truthful by 

 human weakness.

I read over my shadow years. I have it written down, albeit the scratchmarks are so sweet in comparison to the thund'rous growling of mine those dark nights ago.

I am bemused to see that even thrust up inside a deep depression at the cusp of 19 years breathing eternity, I was hopeful, so hopeful. There was so much light I was blinded and in a raging night.

I really resonate with the phantom of the opera, because there is so much viscous and raw beauty in the darkest, most putrid places. The place known only to shame. 

Black eye cros't my mind's street. The nightmaricorn. Perception is Powerful.

I like the stark landscapes set side to side, of me not two years ago. Two small years, I could toss them and throw them to scrye. It is glorious that I had some brilliant esoteric soul-knowledge that whirled me up and shot me from the dark, like a glowing and virulent flower of a pinkish-red.

I see, even then, how fundamental and cataclysmic a force Love was, is. 

I am such a lover, a hopelessly hopeful romantique, forever deep, deep in Love, on most high.

I am maneuvering through the shame I've imbibed and been born with. It causes jet lag in my Loving. It causes friction, and the freedom will come from shame's chains burst forth. 

I also pick up other people's shame, and with my defined heart I feel the shame of the tribe. I am learning about boundaries, healthy definitions so that I am no longer flung into thick cyclones so disorienting. When I Love, I pick up some nasty shame that isn't actually mine, but that I cannot seem to distinguish from mine. This will be a life-long process, to discernment. I am proud of my progress thus far. All it takes is Slowness and Breath, and again Slowness. Feeling the moment and understanding who I am, by cataloging (thru Art and Write); communicating with myself. Alone time is beyond essential woo-wee!

Voyager to Dark Side of the Moon and back. Brilliant codes written in the black and white of my eye. 

Me...king of stone. Watch, even the most skeptical will come to know. 

Everyone wants to have a genius. Easy to ensnare, the dualistic fool.

The well floods back in, again ready for alchemy absolute and muddied. 

Trekkin' to the temple of Water. I already feel my frequency in frantic unraveling. Auras change with the sands of time. 

The Crimson forest bleeds and the warlocks and shamans wake up cuddled in frosted symphonies. The laypeople manifest, generate, project and reflect,,, and life goes, death goes. 

Young slung warriors strike out every moment and carve the wood deep in their mettled inside-river. Eye always open, dual appendaged vessel a'goin, mind racing, soul bursting in the trumpet call of a rosy cheeked lover.   

I come from death, from a very serious death. And even then in the nightingale night, my poetry spilled forth. Destined for greatness, I can see the uncollapsible, incorrigible force of Holy Frequency that will take me to what made me:

LOVE.