Note

In depths perception my mind is taking flight
I felt the affinity for this reality, but to accept it?
I thought I might.

You see, in this carnation, during this way of the flesh
My memories, like the tide, impede and regress
Cycles like the waves, in and out they breathe and coming closer to my dry heart before again taking their leave.

But on the verge, where my soul is damp,
The waters of reality, they caress my precipice, tantalising my self with all notion
Acting as the relay that enables communication between the inner and the aether.

Every motion an example, every example recurring.
I was born into a body of a child, was this the first time? If so, then how have I come so far?
The thoughts swirl inside and the sounds of my inner liken to those of waves crashing upon eachother like some kind of flesh borne blender.

I took the journeys, I faced my fears
In all that I could find it, cheer
I would ride the curve and return to my start
Finding that pain would resume

I noticed not the source, or denied it with all my mind
I'd contort and my soul would scream in pain
While I pushed for the existential point
In which all my actions were balanced and with great intention

My life had been manipulated from days so early, my attempts flailing like ants on water.

The pain bearing tether pulsated with blood
Grasping it in my hand I pulled it free,
Placing my other hand onto the heart, so that it wouldn't bleed.

The healing took its time, but each day was brighter than that before it.
I relieved myself of the vices that stunted my return to myself
I emboldened myself with the relations and emotions that instigated growth, that felt like love

I remembered who I was in the end, and who they had been, for so long and with so many memories.

With a heart so light that when I first met Anubis he had to weigh it twice.
Now when we meet he just smiles and asks me if I think this will be my last time.

I wonder if it is because it takes me so long to remember who I am
Or whether it's because it wouldn't be right for me to go any further without performing some function

I know that I want to bring more through this passage of healing
And that in the end, the weight on this reality will be shifted.
So that we all may grow again as one.

End Woes

Sand woes, oh my sand woes
This life of mine I grew and chose
The violence to the past it throws
now voices of that pain echoes

I've felt my woes
I've held them close
Have you seen the putrid prose
That states my state of pallid pose

Woes and woes, oh my sand woes
I feel this empty life dispose
Of my existence
Time, space, close

The entrance to all kindness shows
An empty space between two groves
One is fetid, one with rose
One is dying, one still grows

Crying, sobbing my heart now knows
But late too much I chose
My punishment does now approach
Lacerated from heart to toes

But roots of mine now have arose
This garden behind me with its crows
I walk toward new golden rows
And leave behind these old sand woes.

Notice

Who is this person, always showing their smile?
Or at least attempting to show it, as long as someone is watching, as long as it makes a difference.

Sometimes I can see it, when it seems noone is watching and the smile fades, the subtle sensation of great devestation sets in for a moment before they realise that someones eye is set upon them.

Sometimes it seems as though it's their own glimpse that reminds them to smile, as if to say "make a difference to yourself too please"

But it doesn't seem real if thats the case.

It was a long while I used to see that face. I still do at times, as my enjoyable flight flickers towards a previous setting.

Why does it spark thought, is it because I enjoy the idea of a person trying to initiate change through a smile?

Or is it because I know that the only way you learn to care like that is when you've hurt.

Maybe thats not true, maybe someone else learned to be kind of heart before suffering.

The way this world looks right now I highly doubt that.

What is this?

Behind my ear, quiet shrill whispers testing my temptations
Am I hearing them or are they forged false figures formed internally
Never the less, I do digress, these temptations that they do attest
To think and be within this realm as me?
Or fiddle, play and spend my days relating and creating in foundations that expect acceptance from "peers"

The self
I pore over my memories, my predictions, observations
I test values of methods and systems
I mull the sensations of segregation and social embrace

What?
Extracting the golden parts I do construct the most conceivably abstract systemic function that exhumes a concentrated version of my minds production

Is this perfection?
In spite of delivery method, my sensation blissful, tantalising, impeccable internal self assurance
I test the subjects for reaction, none?

My miscalculation embodies the indignation suffered by an attempt at self projection

To create lacking context makes sense, to present lacking context is irrelevance

The question resounds, of which judge I value the score more
Is it I or they or you, or some combination of those few, the we
And what percentage of we is me, and that of thee

Looping back my mind retraces, I notice the pattern of these circles running races, replications repetitions, dissections never ending of what is existence, what is value, what we all are

I look down, deeply confused I decide to smile

Dansa

As I stared into the dark, devoid of my trinkets and eclectic discrepancies, the eyes that stared back were those of the end.

Turmoil embraced me and I turned my back, a slower end was the seemingly appropriate option.

Is it the fear of death, or the fear of my deaths impact on the life I love here. I dare not approach my end self and ask, for the answer may well be the bane of my own existence.

In all, retracing my steps to the material world, I find myself again embodied by the trinkets of this place. I am sated and the dark eyes that lurk in anticipation for my return are out of sight.

The previous embodiment of my destruction and end is now embraced, in my foolish naivete I had assumed that the dark would no longer hold my turmoil.

In the end, one is always waiting.

In the end he is always more powerful than the living I.

In the end he waits, while I walk crooked lines to slow our embrace.

Will my frolicking build me courage to meet him again before my clock has run out? Or will I be of fleet foot until there is no longer space between him and I.

I am but his satellite, my own satellite. This gravitation is my concerted existence and each pass is but a notions moment of narcissistic inflection.

Tentatively seeking and retrospectively speaking I know the pattern and the answer.

But do I dare to utter the reality.

Maybe next time.