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.
