Cyclical Clusterfucks in and around and out Me

Me? I-me-mine?

Who the fuck is that?

I feel like rambling, and it will be potentially ugly and myopic and therefore probably beautiful like the iridescent swirls of oil on a poisoned gull of the Mother Ocean.

I haven't written here in a one-two binary minute. I haven't expunged myself of the sins of my father, of my mother, all the ones before me and of me. Recently, I have had my life on a sinking ship that hesitates in the mouth of a hungering elemental force: water, the emotions.

I am falling in love. More and more with the sun and moon ballroom dance tempo to guide me.

Just reaching, I feel, for authenticity, is radical and raw and hurts a whole lot.

Authenticity. Pleasurepain. The illusion of dichotomies.

With the concentric spirals that lie in her eyes, his eyes, the Eye, I am whirled and whorled within my own pains, which are the worlds.

The locus of my pain is that which pains mother Earth, and anyone who is awake or awakening can feel this sensation, this silent scream that grips in the body and out the body.  

I feel I bring about the cosmic, but I don't. My life has been blessed with the cosmic. I was born awakening, and I am eternally grateful that I was given the Eye to see. Because I have no idea why me and not you, why the heroin addict across the street and not me, why? Why me?

"With great power comes great responsibility."

I am merely a sacrificial vase of jade. An energy allocation awakening; to do the duty it is perfectly designed for.

I am here to Love. To bring connection where it has dissolved. Within my own internal bruis-ed fungus, and necessarily then, without me. ((cleanup time))

 
The joy I intuit is already within me and without me. The joy is all over. This is a phenomenon, a grand phenomenon of CONNECTION. Whatever it is, whoever made it, I cannot yet fathom; but I know it was built to connect, to fuse, to synthesize, to balance itself out, to sustain. The joy is already there, and each of us must clean the dirt around our heart and bowels, and rejoice in the sheer genius of all of this.

phoenix of haus 8 rises from death

But, Now: Our world in this x and y axis of linear space and time has fucked up. Humanity, and perhaps forces higher and lower, have fucked up. I feel it, all the time, so raw, so bruised. Ah, I feel the burden, and my vessel of love is not the only one who feels it.

Whether or not you are awake, you share the burden. 

               The anxiety of which origins you cannot place, which grips you in the middle of the night in a sea-swept sweated bed, that whispers to you from all around and sets off a glitch in this Matrix, when entropy becomes the every-other-day---

that is the pain of an injured planet,

a call to transcend the current reality

of disillusion and utter bullshit,

so blatant its embarassing,

to sublimate your every doing and every thought

to the higher more peaceful more authentic 

calling. 

Real talk.

But, Action?

Que accion? 

I'll take my philosophy for now: Wait to Respond. In sets of threes. Emotionally defined, so I must just ride my waves which I flood into those closest to me. My path is divulging, and the Eye allows me glimpses of the future, and I delight in my path as Rainbowarrior. I delight in the joy I know rides beneath the deepest vortex of shadow. 

Alright, its out. I bow out, for now.