The wondrous beautiful of the cosmos
The verdant blush of life’s variagated paths
branching into infinity
diving beneath gaseous masses of heartbreak
climbing into azure clouds billowing
Soaring passion feeds flames of eternity
Blooming in brilliant bursts of crimson and vermillion
Such is the blessing of life
The realization of divinity
Aloft upon wings of consciousness
Momentous and burdgeoning
With the power of love
I remember a dream of blue.
For some reason, floating is something I do.
Wakening with the sun feeling like I’m the only One
In the world. Purple and blue voids, nightside beaches of sensuality, bodies undulating, brown, black, red, blue and green, soft sighs of ecstasy permeating the Between.
Life after life, between time I remember asking the Divine what the purpose of Incarnation was. I can’t remember the exact response but I find myself ensconced in duality yet again, and I can’t pretend like I don’t love it. Like I wish I was someplace else, perhaps an Elf in an alternate dimension of Earth, where the Sidhe flee to relax when humanity becomes too much and it gets hard for the Fae to breath.
Floating, thinking, consciousness aware of itself. I wonder Me, like Prince said and contemplate Freedom from the noises inside my head. Once upon a time that is where I lived, fighting with the tentacles of Ego in order to forgive Self, for allowing time and space to to attack my natural grace and introduce strife as if that was what life was all about. Nowadays I laugh at my ignorance and willingness to do penance for a crime I did not commit.
Diving deep beneath the surface of thought I found myself lost, wondering what it was I sought, my memory fading fast as I left the Ego behind like something crass and to be culled, the deeper I dove the less lulled by Leviathan I felt, the deeper currents of consciousness coursing against my svelt, astral Self, chuckling I wonder again if I’m really that Elf, just dreaming of a human host while my true Being makes the most of each Incarnation, the recreation of the Soul the most elevating goal of all.
Shifting seas of Being remind me that this is a dream, and I imagine my body in a bed somewhere spinning through the cosmos apropos of nothing at all, falling, laughing, shining like the Sun and feeling love coming from everyone.
I can feel my eyes opening, now.
The light, shining through my lids.
Waking with the sun, I know I am not
The only One.
Don’t really have much to say, so I have no idea what’s really in play, or what’s about to come out of these fingers, and this brain. Going with the flow, feeling calm and peaceful, chilling like ice after a raging torrent of hot pain. But it’s not – or only partly – my own, being felt empathic vibes, flowing from low to on high, where Souls in Transition meet and learn to fly beyond the mundane. Happiness lies in joyous rides on the soul train, where Hippies greet and B-Boys meet Cowgirls to dance, everybody vibing in a spirited trance, singing old tunes that everybody knows to the intoxicating beat of ambient flows.
The news is overwhelming, the world is ending daily. Hour by hour, minute by minute we’re all up in it, the frenetic pace of the rat race a whisky straight, no chaser and it’s never too late to meet our Maker. Once I’d read the program I realized that I was at the wrong show and now I’m living this Surreal Life ever on the go, marking the checkpoints and life events like an inmate on the wall of his cell, rushing pell mell toward a date with destiny, training to be a victim of a full frontal lobe lobotomy.
Truly some people have no souls, only goals to be met on the material plane as the days of abstract physical satiation wane and the discontented Spirit of the World trains Souls of Light in the Science of Inner Sight. The secret meeting is tonight, and some are not invited: the secret handshake has been changed, the secret meeting place pre-arranged by secret ballot only, the voters a cadre of lonely acolytes who’ve lost sight of what lies beyond the night, the day being the only time they’re allowed to play, or hold sway over the hearts and minds of the fey. The masses have been led astray, the fabled Way of the Sacred Warrior cast away by the lusts of the many, while the few have been allowed to create chaos and disarray.
Intransigent gentlemen have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to change my mind, while their women kneel – knees splayed – in the offal, playing marbles with swine, casting aspersions upon the Divine. The dice are loaded in the Game of Life, the tarot cards are coded with heartache and strife. The Medium lies when she speaks to the Dead, the Telepath cries when he sees the mess in your head. Never mind the dark promises of madness and gloom, the Magician waxes eloquent as he works the whole room. Wonder and terror abound in these days, the path ahead is dark as we traverse this maze.
Kneeling by the River of Blasphemy we pray to Dead G-ds, casting hope into the ether while bloated carcasses float by. We drink of diseased blood and eat of benighted flesh, unaware that the test is not pass or fail, but whether or not we live to tell the tale. An opened Third Eye is not an invitation to pass on by, but a dare to even try, as if our karmic involvement is moot and shooting off at the mouth while turning tail and running south is the order of the day, or the one and only way to keep demons and sychophants at bay.
Living life in the breech is like trying to teach monkeys to sing. Whilst they float on by on golden wings, I clasp my finger and turn my ring twice to the left then once again back to the right, praying beneath my breath that it doesn’t turn into a fight. Making the most of the sunlight is right. What is done during the day doesn’t hide from the night, is not afraid of the Inner Sight. Monstrosities aside, most people agree not to conceal all of themselves behind masks, the task being to difficult to manage without basking in the ignoble while fools dance the Pasa Doble, emitting disfunction like Chernobyl.
It’s only a minor foible to toil lightly, each lifetime shines brightly, each lesson portends the next, complex tests designed to perplex. Holding your hand I shout in joy as we dance a jig, doubt destroyed by convenient fig leaves held before private parts exposed to the Truth, like Sleuths of the Soul, in search of Final Proof. Sleep beckons whispering promises of peace, of bold release and the surcease of worry, the ancient story begins again, the future promises of worlds to end. Rise high in wonder search low for old friends, be open to blunders and always make amends, for this life is poised on the brink of the edge, to jump with eyes closed is the best possible pledge.