I got these Flows, you know?
These beats inside that unseat deeply held beliefs. They cycle around in my mind, finding a space beyond time to query the metanarrational ideals representative of close encounters of the spiritual kind. So I conduct these drills, you know, diving deep into still waters to find the current rushing below. Again, I got that flow, you know?
But how best to express it in a way that doesn’t dress it in pretentious bullshit that shuts down understanding, that feels like someone prancing in ideological fields, flowering philosophies divorced from iconographies of force, pounding people into coarse miasmas of etheric plasma, divorced from the real, the material ordeal that binds hearts and minds in time and space, to a place of essential grace? But that might be way too abstract. Not enough facts, revealing a lack of grounding in the necessity of communicating with tact.
Words stack. One upon the next, phrases coalescing in stages building meaning, streaming intention through gleaming shards of light, information blasting edifices built upon blight, the detritus of institutions not quite visible as such, appearing instead as solutions to problems long sought, build here, not there, upon this rock. I’ve got the flow. I know.
More bullshit. More words, designed to placate the herd. To create hypnotic illusions of complacency, in lieu of a fundamental alignment to conceptions of decency. Perception creates more opportunity for deception. Misalignment with truth, logically bound arguments that demand external proof when the real answer is under your own roof. That’s a metaphor, for your head. Where your attention should be, instead of out among the walking dead, shambling zombies sporting Abercrombie and Fitch, complacent in their privilege, thinking their life plan is coming off without a hitch.
Ain’t that a bitch. Ask a witch, or Wiccan, to be politically correct, if language use is more important than context? If understanding is gained by using words laced with pain? Does it hit deeper? Does it find the flow? Awaken the sleeper from the dream, elicit anger and indignant steam? Are some conversations best held in the highest tones, strident accusations embracing convictions held to the bone? Call and response rhythms bracing emotional blows that shake bodies to the core, while the demands of belief ask for more and still more? What, still, is in store?
What is coming next? Can you see it? Feel it? Like a storm gathering on the horizon, rent by lightning and thunder, still faint in the distance as the sharks and squid plunder the depths of our collective despair. You can smell the ozone in the air. Feel the electricity tingling in your hair as it stands on end. That’s the thing. You can’t pretend. Angels with broken wings still feel the sting of God’s abandonment. The loss of that Flow.
That timeless coursing of love that comes from both above and below. That sense of being a part of something integral and eternal, infinite and both maternal and paternal. The yin-yang dichotomy of opposition where polarities unite and you realize that the fight itself is the illusion, the contusions mere bruises to ego and unfounded fear.
Silence is birthed in the place of an ever-present wall of sound and fury. The storm arrives with lurid intensity and raindrops begin to fall, tasting of sorrowful waste, tracing paths of contentment down my face. My heartbeat stretches into eternity, spiking reverberations looming imponderable and tall. From those dizzying heights, I then fall. Beyond all calls to internalize the need for redemption and false guilt. Pretention fails. Internal dissension is quelled. And I sail, outwards into skies of light, and into the Flow.