I am thankful for this meal. For this meal I am thank full, thank you, meal. Thank you bodice. I am in utter awe. Grief is a celebration of life. I am stricken.
I am mounted. Stigmata written on my leg, where the first of magic entered. I mark blood on the journey to reclaim my lingam, my phallic sensibilities, to transform any known understanding of the latter into a deviled and foolish thing; my own physicality itself a burden to the eyes of the Otherized who cannot see.
But right in front of you, I will force your head. Gentle gentle gentle. With the terrifying power of unconditional devotion, Love, agape, I will force your chin upwards, downwards, both ways to upend the daze. Perhaps I feel the martyr encoded within me rise up and take you all on. It is just mechanics, design, I am just a building going my way. "And young And naive And And And martyrdom." I am just a building, up in flames, to rebuild again.
This small- handful of days where the magic has crept into my bloodstream, I know I am now, talon by talon, through the doorway. The doorway to where I meet all of you, to burn baby burn with you, for you, at you. I am a monkey, watch me dance. And all that jazz.
But narcissistic devotations aside, I realize. I come into awareness, into realization. I am doing the best for myself, and that has been the greatest challenge thus far. I have always done the best for others, and now I am doing the best for myself. And my life has changed. My life is change. Stigmata on my leg, and I am a phoenix who must die to wake up, and wake up to die.
What a wonderful life.
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