There's this thing when you believe, genuinely believe that you want to die.
It's not about you. That's the most important thing.
It's never about you. The moment it becomes about you, it's not about death anymore. And that's the trick.
So it was not much of a surprise to me when I slowly opened my eyes to see the white robe of the angel of death on my bed one miserable morning.
I didn't need to keep looking up. I knew what I was witnessing already. I saw merely the death shroud of where it's feet would be, and I knew.
I squealed and escaped back to this lifeboat reality like a timid mouse. Because that's what I was. A verminous dreamer, wishing for a moment of absolution.
And that's when I knew it wasn't about me anymore. Maybe I should have made better choices, but there is probably not a soul that can claim otherwise.
Grace is a five letter word for something incandescent and beyond the scope of the word 'beauty'. I had lost mine. It was gone, but no.. it was becoming something new. Reborn.
To walk in the world of your own shadow is to admit to the parts of yourself that will never bleed by the light of day. I am leaking.
What does it mean, not to be shaken to your core by the signs of the absolute: the immutable?
All around me, I find the signals and the symbols of a world that seems dead within me. And to each I shed a single tear. Each is a business card left in in the small crystal vase by the desk on your way through my reality. I miss them like long lost family, even though my own living family feel like strangers. This was not a choice that was made: feelings don't care for your choices anyway.
So I walked through the netherworld of this place. I watched the ghosts of another time dance in shameless pride for their unreal world. I saw the missing dreams become more real than the distinctions of a blighted soul. This journey was once a choice, but it was a small one. One that became so much more, and one I probably did not have any real choice but to choose. Show the starving a meal and they will feast if permitted. Fate is too wealthy a word for it, and destiny is a fairy tale. And we all know how awful those really are deep down.
It's disconcerting to realize that when the things you always wished for as a foolish child start to happen, they are as natural and uninspiring as being caught in the rain. No less meaningful and magical, but the symbolism trickles across one's flesh and reminds one of another way of being. There is no safety, but at least there can be honesty in the face of adversity.
It's not difficult to be deferential to the divine. But it is crushing to know that it is there for you even when you don't feel like you can deserve it's presence.
There's nothing more intense than knowing you're wrong for all the right reasons. But it is not a state of being that comes much recommended.
We'll leave this missive to the unknown with that single link. It speaks for itself.
It's not about you. That's the most important thing.
It's never about you. The moment it becomes about you, it's not about death anymore. And that's the trick.
So it was not much of a surprise to me when I slowly opened my eyes to see the white robe of the angel of death on my bed one miserable morning.
I didn't need to keep looking up. I knew what I was witnessing already. I saw merely the death shroud of where it's feet would be, and I knew.
I squealed and escaped back to this lifeboat reality like a timid mouse. Because that's what I was. A verminous dreamer, wishing for a moment of absolution.
And that's when I knew it wasn't about me anymore. Maybe I should have made better choices, but there is probably not a soul that can claim otherwise.
Grace is a five letter word for something incandescent and beyond the scope of the word 'beauty'. I had lost mine. It was gone, but no.. it was becoming something new. Reborn.
To walk in the world of your own shadow is to admit to the parts of yourself that will never bleed by the light of day. I am leaking.
What does it mean, not to be shaken to your core by the signs of the absolute: the immutable?
All around me, I find the signals and the symbols of a world that seems dead within me. And to each I shed a single tear. Each is a business card left in in the small crystal vase by the desk on your way through my reality. I miss them like long lost family, even though my own living family feel like strangers. This was not a choice that was made: feelings don't care for your choices anyway.
So I walked through the netherworld of this place. I watched the ghosts of another time dance in shameless pride for their unreal world. I saw the missing dreams become more real than the distinctions of a blighted soul. This journey was once a choice, but it was a small one. One that became so much more, and one I probably did not have any real choice but to choose. Show the starving a meal and they will feast if permitted. Fate is too wealthy a word for it, and destiny is a fairy tale. And we all know how awful those really are deep down.
It's disconcerting to realize that when the things you always wished for as a foolish child start to happen, they are as natural and uninspiring as being caught in the rain. No less meaningful and magical, but the symbolism trickles across one's flesh and reminds one of another way of being. There is no safety, but at least there can be honesty in the face of adversity.
It's not difficult to be deferential to the divine. But it is crushing to know that it is there for you even when you don't feel like you can deserve it's presence.
There's nothing more intense than knowing you're wrong for all the right reasons. But it is not a state of being that comes much recommended.
We'll leave this missive to the unknown with that single link. It speaks for itself.
