I’m navigating a field of dark something-ness Sitting quiet in morning air
In these cavities where my soul perceives life, I seek a heightened energy
Laying hidden behind wrinkled skin tucked tightly into two beds of compact tissue in this moment they rest purposefully as if sitting behind window curtains
They serve a common purpose when prompted, To identify objects in this limiting dimensional plane.
Some days when I come here, I wander aimlessly across battle-torn countries of thought It is essential to let the river take them Watching them pass as an observer instead of the instigator Feeling the depth of their sting grow distant
Sinking deeply into the dimension where we live beyond bodies
Where I am a bee pollinating the flower I am the bird calling out in a resounding plea I am the wind pushing through bamboo forests
Until breath inhaling and collapsing my cadaver becomes less of a grounding cord And the mat placed beneath with intention is no longer a chain to the ground
There is now no face to inhabit, The world; a faint memory of molding
Here the wind isn’t quite invisible Temperature is not affected by her power Bearing colors, intentions and tranquility
I woke up in the back of a car filled with twilight a forgotten song played pleasantly on the radio and the mild moment under the quiet trees stirred in me the knowledge of the enticing present I lay there whole and happy awaiting my family's return
the realm of illusion not much more illusory than in the physical world extreme unreliability impression by the unseen seer changing forms glamour an object seen as it were from all sides at once the inside as if the outside inadequate language frequent reversal astral light 139 as 931 and so on capable masters great hurry and carelessness all possible forms of illusion how do i deal with phenomenons like this few words are needed death is easier to face than to try and wrap my head around (life) it's not about seeing correctly, but translating what is being seen trying to carry my consciousness without it breaking from physical to astral... and back possibility of recollections could partially be lost or distorted in the blank interval experiencing between breaths the root of this moment to the next the inevitable now spirits unfortunately dormant we'll soon build up the courage
Having been referred to on multiple occasions as being “depressed”, I am offended. Every time. Having a chronically macabre state of mind and being drawn to a melancholy atmosphere and writing does not make one depressed. Or a psychopath. It does not mean a person is on a journey to being a serial killer or committing suicide. Some people, such as myself, just happen to find comfort in things deep and meaningful. While some comedy, joy, and love is to be revered and enjoyed more sparingly the sad, twisted, and horrid truths of the world can uphold a better sense of completion, joy, and love. This does not make one depressed or mentally ill but perhaps just more...... thoughtful.
She who lives in accordance to nature unfolding is an entity who governs with equity, Embracing the beauties of organic origins she preserves life's virtue, Holistically embodying the spirit of now she carries an impartial tranquility, Restoring balance towards fickle fabrications many are led to believe.