Thoughts Dark Reflection

A Distortion of Identity

December's Painted Ladies, MK'25

He had come to love the desperate feeling of anxiety and paralyzing terror. His was the unique experience of being completely devastated, without options, no support or so much as a single certainty to rest in.

The incredible beauty of a horrible future filled with abuse and blame, ridicule and shame. He fell deeply into emptiness with his own failure, and found a certain wry enjoyment in the fact that he wasn’t allowed to even call failure his own.

It all was so perfect, that the identity provided by the focus of hatred and rage upon him was not even given except for a tantalizing conclusion mere millimeters beyond his furthest reach.

There was, in his devastated state a fantastic hopelessness so completely sewn into the fabric of reality that any action he might take was guaranteed to create a swift and incredibly harsh reprisal. The burning pain, the emptiness of total devastation, it made a wasteland for his soul.

He dwelled there in the waves of despair, in the grasp of accusation and ridicule, a place without options, devoid of choices. It rings with the sounds of punishment. It oppresses through an avalanche of ruin. The place where Pavlov's dogs, after living through the worst inhuman torture simply lay down into it.

It was all he had, really and truly. It wasn’t any form of depression. Rather it was being held in place and targeted. Everything that was attacking avoided his surrender. The assaults went around his acceptance of his uselessness, growing even more ferocious whenever he attempted to establish any baseline for his stinging guilt.

The absolute stunning completeness of being the destination of every thorn within the vicinity, was the reckoning that all of it, every last bit, was centered around an unfounded certainty, his sense of him actually being somebody.

Situational identity.

The question begs to be asked. What is it that keeps one standing when every corner of their world is collapsing?

What could possibly be significant enough to reduce the volume of the discordant shrieks of detonation to a bearable level?

Could it be simply the morbid curiosity of what it is to strike bottom, hurled at incredible speed into an unmoveable barrier, or a test to discover that inarguable piece of reality?

If there is any valid reason, any reason at all not to end it, then that reason must be very closely associated with genuine importance, actual significance, a sense, no matter how imperfect, of something adamantine.

Diamond Mind.

The unshakable knowledge that primal, almost instinctual awareness informs all conditions, all situations, and connects even beyond the Dark Star Ray.

Death.

Some nod sagaciously and pronounce this to be the purview of religion, yet this statement is perhaps as contrived by expectation and misrepresention as it gets. Religion is a system that demands adherence. It is at best a social ordering of specific imperatives and exceptionalism.

Religion, however, has absolutely nothing to do with the foundation of reality. Modern religion is as much a construct of artificial society as political parties.

Others will skirt the issue and assert it must be spirituality.

Really?

In order to be spiritual there must be spirit. The assumption is that this goes without saying, yet how could a civilization that has sacrificed its knowledge of how to live in this world have any inkling of spirit?

There is a true spirituality, and then there is the one for sale. The two are in no measure the same phenomenon, yet the visible, the accessible, is always that one that bellows, screams for profit and money.

In order for a spirituality to be for sale it must have an easily accessible handle. The expectation demands for one call themselves a shaman, a pagan, a magician, one who will sell you something from their label, their brand.

In order for a spirituality to sell it must be soft, non-threatening and available. For sale spirituality must be easily digestible. It must get there with the $29.95 specially chosen crystal, the one blasted out of it's matrix with dynamite and ripped from the depths of the earth with heavy machinery. It must be persuasive because the sales literature always promises something. Look, this crystal was found through divinely bestowed higher faculties!

For sale spirituality can get there with a paid subscription. It is great when it can get there on a holiday, answering aloud when that sloe-eyed soul mate will arrive to save the hopeful querent. Spirituality for sale is everywhere, from advice to essences, stones to formulas, its only a credit card number away.

Buisness models.

Spirituality for sale is useless, just excess baggage when the world moves to break the carefully crafted individual into as many pieces as possible, when one's world collapses into flames, sometimes literally.

A true spirituality is only arrived at after the ice cracks and the hapless doomed person is hurled into the forbidden depths, left for dead yet somehow returning. Spirituality as the shattering, the echoe of half remembered perceiving without identity is all one is allowed who has lost everything and has nothing.

One with mystery, awaiting the hand of destiny.

That is the only spirituality that matters, and that spirituality is the only one that ever meant anything, the one that cannot be bought and sold, not soft, not gold, just the stuff of sheer survival when there is no reason in this world to continue.

Everything else is just an interesting diversion.

In the sullen morning the throngs of the gathered cast their shadows upon the freshly dug grave. There in the perpetual darkness stood the man in the robes with a cross held at an odd angle. The sky was streaked with the invisible currents of living energy.

He made his way before them, they were beckoning in a wordless motionless way, the call enticed him and he moved closer to the rectangular hole. In his dream he was a dead man as his unfortunate flesh was conscripted by the forces of life to be buried forever, never again to wander, no ghost.

He awoke from his nightmare with a strange sense of acceptance as he heard someone say that the coffee pot was functioning again. Yesterday the electronic device went insane with numbers circling crazily upon the small blue screen. It wouldn't turn off it wouldn't turn on, the ghost had ridden his body and the electricity. He didn't try but later that day he had broken the spell, and now on that fateful day, the anniversary when the man with the coffee pot had died, O. D.'ed on meds administered to stop his haunted shouts, with a dose he didn't want, but was forced to take because he was weak, the dead man coffee pot was working again, resurrection.

The coffee tasted so sweet.

He poured in the creme, with the thicker stuff floating, and as he drank it willingly a drop ran down his chin. He remembered last night's conversation with Sekhmet, her terrifying Lioness head regarding him the way a cat might regard her next meal, the only question after she caught it being if she would devour while it was still living, taste that succulent raw flavor of life. She told him a few secrets, almost in passing, that she was a force of nature, and the old gods are returning as shitstem is shooting itself in the head.

There were too many times he thought he was already dead, that the Archon gods must be bored to play with him, that they enjoyed sending him dreams, forcing him to think thoughts that weren't his. Yet he listened and heard, or maybe just felt his heart beating, his lungs breathing, the fire within.

Identity is like that, something that becomes habitual instead of real.

It's easy to assume, the handles, the places where the grip becomes solidified antiflow. He got to the point where he enjoyed testing it, realizing that the responses and the rejections weren't his, and he would then dream of oppositions and the flow would again tumble in like a clear laughing stream.

The grips and the rejections were so deep he could only sense them spiralling down, down, the mystery locks of Sinmara so much like Sekhmet, promising the end of all those constraints believed to be constructions.

Distortion fields

A rippling of energy

Arriving at the holding

Where everything becomes

Always condensing into a dream.

The desert in winter is the coldest of places where everything sleeps until the heat remembers the wasteland created by government fires intentionally coddled to be landscape wide destruction. A sudden crash or explosion, the shattering of the sound barrier sent her flying in the December air. There! She alit upon the sun warmed wall, a vision, a sight so rare as to be a wonder. There she tested her wings before flying over the roofs of buildings, the painted lady.

Identity can never be anything nailed to an idea. He saw all those efforts to use definitions as just a house of cards in the rain.

People always imagine what they can never have. The grip that slows the flow is the eager grasp that solidifies what what so fleeting. A tight grip becomes a house for expectation, comparison, for wanting something identical to what another commands.

The voice of the gods doesn't often ride through such density, yet the grip provides the similarity, the place substantial to relate from, a hook for the collection of destiny.

What's your name what do you do have you ever experienced the same things that makes the bridge and becomes the school through which we learn to steer through this world at the bottom of the sea.

What's your claim to all the fame that makes you just a enough of an individual to maybe be interesting did you ever have a lot of money do you travel to all the warm places when the frigid breeze steals the warmth from your cheeks.

What's that you say I wondered memory walking items that some spirit put in the pocket of my soul laughing at the confusion did you pick my pocket because you wanted to think like that invisible being but you found out that it wasn't what it was all cracked up to be identity without memory as the only true way of being.

Have you floated above the darkest depths?

The presence of the nebula, somewhere in space. A silent cosmic melody heard and seen. Celestial egg with a red as blood vein running from crown to down, so slowly forming, becoming the living tree.

Moving through the dark, all the so very real conditions of a life no longer lived.

The silence has never changed.

In this world we worship becoming, tomorrow you will meet your heart throb girl, after work you will finally relax, when you've gotten enough money you will get the Hell out of here and into some place that isn't a wasteland, when you're richer, when your retired, but no one thinks about Gig found dead on the floor last Sunday. Always the becoming.

The children of Seth had long since forsaken the cult of what was never real, the artificial solid grip impoundment of the flow in storm. It is the madness, the sudden onSET that so effortlessly sweeps away the fantasy you give your belief away to.

Precious notions of creation rarely become aware that they become so they must fade beyond the bright ring of the unreachable horizon. The flow is sweet, a loose drop of coffee rolling down the chin following the curve of the skin you believe is yours, although you had no hand in determining anything.

Set's children knew the ways beyond the Archontic hexagonal cage.

The layers of the onion, the steps into the underworld, melting, dissolving, reducing to the deep intensity of the luminous energy centers.

One could say, the issue with the modern doomed society is that even it's suicide is contrived. There is no outside force to keep it honest, since that was set up and then destroyed almost a century ago. There is no check, no balance, no conscience. This world is doomed because the borrowed midget souls now run it.

Yet within the cosmic egg, somewhere deep, in deepest space, the living tree is itself the flow's own distortion, a distillation at once wonderful and transcendent, and at the same time designated as a matchstick in a corporate ledger.

Everything eats, everything feasts on the dead body of some other. Rings upon rings, themes upon themes, an ocean of despair, guilt and blame that can never be assigned to any other. For the borrowed souls of the controllers this fuels their hatred and their games even as their star speeds to the horizon to vanish in the light of another morning breaking over the peaks they burned.

They know only their hunger, the giggles and tickles when they win.

Know one, knowing the balance, the chaos that comes gliding. It is the exercise of primal, untamed and uncaged identity.

Like the silence, it hasn't changed.