As if past ghosts dwelt still

in the willful caverns evergreen

to sanctify a heart

with the glacial touch of sleep.

Alas! Does the weeping trickle

through the breathing whim

of promising lands which,

by masquerade aside, exonerate

the uncanny aberrant.

And by art and fervent sacrifice

of briny diamonds in the clash,

does the wisdom of the fool

parades before the fire sword

of heretical command.

The wolf, the shadow, and the moon.

Stigma hominum befogs the mirror

of Exalted Harmony,

yet the glowing markings of pathwork

will always tune the melody of salvation

were one to know how to listen.

Image by Roland Nikrandt from Pixabay

It is undoubtedly there, amidst the crawling shadows creeping through the maze of what we call our minds, that we truly find the most valuable treasures.

I pushed myself through the feeling of indolence immediately after waking up and recording my dreams; thus, abandoning my bed and engaging in all immediate rituals of self-care, eating something, doing the dishes, and brushing my teeth last. All of this without allowing myself to complain or formulate excuses and muse about distractions.

I realized two things today:

  1. Indolence will always be there, and it is my responsibility toward myself to rise and conquer it every single day through awareness, will, and vision.
  2. As I washed the dishes, I plunged into my head, observed, and interacted with it on regards to my dreams today and to myself with the conscious push I exerted. Looking to my left and reading the label on the honey bottle, I realized that it meant nothing to me. Even the word “honey” was empty. Like this, I became conscious of the secret to self-control and discipline (quite note: control is not punishment/depravation, but management) on regards to food consumption, any action, or any aspect of social conditioning.
  • Resistance only begets compulsive surrender. It is when things such as labels and actions mean nothing that we truly observe, that all temptations are rendered powerless. When everything means nothing, then do we consciously decide what to do next. There is an absence for the need to react because the stimuli mean nothing, and we are set on a vision we have made for ourselves.

~*~

This last part places me, however, in a spot where I must pen a side effect to my own processes and deductions. And that is an insidious feeling of rebelling against the insight/knowledge/wisdom acquired when thinking about it or attempting to teach it to other people and see how it can help, a feeling which strangely translates to resistance and compulsive surrender. This insubordinate is nothing more than a childish saboteur, a remnant of some subconscious programming that indulges in hoarding all effort and revelation because it somehow has made it seem that sharing tips was the way of losing them.

Well, let today be the day in which I take this saboteur to the guillotine!

I want to watch its head roll off, and behold the execution platform be bathed in its blood!!

Umbra: Logos! Come and dance with us.

Logos: I am fine, thank you.

Core: Oh, come on! I’ll teach you some moves.

*silence*

Logos: Umbra, is she staying long?

Umbra: Core is part of our family. She’ll stay forever with us.

*silence*

Umbra: What’s wrong? You need Core for a balanced forefront. The army needs you both.

Logos: I know… but she’s so *looks at Core who in turn looks at him glistening with joy* moist… and sweet.

Core: *bursts into laughter* I know, right! Everything that you are not. We’ll make such a great team.

Logos: *grits his teeth as he glares at Umbra* So, Core… uhm… what are those moves you wanted to teach me?

Umbra: *giggles and pats Logos’ shoulder* Good general, good general.

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Neither there nor here –

dwelling in the inbetween where nothing is real,

yet it all lives and has its being.

Deem it a dream –

a heartbeat of torment perpetual.

It is madness viewed through the eyes of the eternal –

a foreign iconoclast so closely distant.

Dancing in the breeze like some aethereal sylph,

the heavens sing and the heart screams;

for the watcher has forgot to be human.

Image by emsalgado from Pixabay

Wail the winter of thy harvest.

Forbear to sacrifice the sun to the hoarfrost;

for the river ran its course with the autumn laws.

Bleed upon the tombstone of thy own core.

Withhold thy kiss from the lips of loss,

and thus thy hands from the sepulcher of love.

Return to the void whence thou crawled’st,

and with thee take the subjugating chains of conscience.

Illusionist and woe of serpentine discordance,

be exiled to the gutter of the fallen!

Remember what was to thee promised:

there is no life for thy venomed calling.