Dreams 2/12/14

I must be having these dreams. The experience of the male hand thrust down upon me. There is the anger, the elimination of anything just; the profound beauty is in my seeking for balance. And in the way the masculine both seduces me and tempts me to be at its side, I am in rage as to its condition here and now, I am enraged by the sexy suspension that I am here in this body to mutate. Once was never the same for me. I am a rainbowarrior, and I am embodied to redefine the notion of masculine and-or feminine. The brain is rendered useless, as my existence and fractal path are evidence that the mutation is not a doing, but a being. I am by my very nature a mutant…and yet the irony lies in the truth that I am only deemed mutant by comparison…that those who I am mutating from are themselves mutants of yore.  Alas, here I am, having dreams of men coming down upon me, waving the small flaccid authority that appears as snake but is not deadly, rather slowly poisoning. And yet, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Desire. Desirousness. The dynamic which all bagged flash cannot escape. The dynamic. The irrefutable web of energy that holds us in like the catchings of striking arachnids. 

The mutation begins slowly. Go slowly. To me.

The mutation begins slowly. It begins with trials, hardships, a few paint dribblings. You as a mutant have to be normal enough or feign normal enough to not push the boundary and find yourself in death. Therefore, the war rages on inside of you, the death that would have come from outside of you if not for your prime feigning is now an ultimate death inside the viscera. The growing void is the worst kind of pain, the sensation that is beyond sensation, it is the rotting of death hidden inside life.  

The fecundity though! The obsidian soils that permeate the young rainbowarrior’s saddened state, the state that refuses pity all at once but not honestly! The dejected and elusively desperate response that the inside death elicits. All one wants to do is hide, after the long day of work in this standardized state. Easy and standardized and life consuming…. The death of the walking is.

But alas, it is through one’s prime gift, their all seeing eye, their very own looking glass, that one may begin to see all there is to See! And the seeing is movement! The seeing is just a cerebral and visceral cataloging of a change made of Mysterious strength, of abundance. And the movement is the freedoming we many are seeking. And underneath this seeking, holding this seeking up, there is much work to be done. There is much work to be done.

To come home to our selves, our gifts, our siddhis, and to love one another, love another… and recognize that our love for another, for others, is our love for ourmanyselves.