We’re living trapped in old ideas. Dead languages. The soul has been removed from our speech. Our sentences have no heart. This world has become a madhouse of science and rationality. Everyone is so serious all the time. Humanity lost its way while staring into a glowing box. But what of magic? Mysticism? The hermetic tradition?
Who will do battle with the bird that stole the sun?
There’s something funny about the idea of being known. We like to think we know other people. That we know who or what they are capable of. The folks we watch on television, in movies, or read about in newspapers, elect to government, observe on social media, etc. We like to think we know them. But do we really? I have spent years of my life with people and in time realized just how little I truly know them. Most people are and remain hidden. Even from themselves. We are mysteries unto ourselves and each other. What is this world? A kind of glowing, twisting and morphing amorphous light. I don’t know you. Never met you. There is no word for what you are. I met you in the realm beyond language. Beyond sight. Where spirit and soul dance and intermingle. This kind of laughter. Such sweetness.
How many years until the rain is singing your name?
Not much to be said, really. Just another day. Floating on this beautiful infinity in the trembling hands of every forgotten sunset. The world is alive, entirely being true. Nothing more than every poet says. What they hate you for. What they try to say you are wrong about. The beauty of being flawed. Immaculate. Made in the image of the Divine One that is everywhere and yet nowhere. Like an unexplainable oneness. Living without any idea of separation.
Good luck, friends.
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
Charles Bukowski, so you want to be a writer?
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
Most people don’t want to write; don’t need to write.
I’m not one of those lucky ones.