Writing on Scrolls
When I change the brain chemistry of my mind, and experience a fully different reality (even if it’s for a short while), I am challenged, propositioned rather, to become aware of the love that exists between myself and others. In detail, I believe the ability to compromise the feeling with the action of love and being loved is performed solely through what can only be called the lively hood of moments passed. Or sometimes, lost. Memory of mind. Glass thoughts; a single shard that portrays itself more like a ghost of the very recently deceased painter, or musician who undertook the weight of love as a distinct function of a working reality. By which the creator proper, is still the loving, and thereby still the main focus of my attention.
You cannot stop what has already come.
In these blind, and weightlessly, long nights, that seem to go nowhere and everywhere (but mostly nowhere), I find myself flying towards the bottomless light, the ending that hasn’t arrived just yet. And I wonder why not, why it hasn’t come to be, through the many dangers that I’ve lived and the many more I’ve loved. Out of all the worlds that I’ve come to know, why has my principal fate not yet been sealed? Perhaps more importantly, why do these questions still pester me without forgiveness, or pity? I must admit, many ceilings have seen my open eyes…
And in these connected affirmations, it would be wildly presumptuous to recall the visions that I’ve had and labeled them as being wrought through the boisterous powers of deduction; it would be incredulous of me to place the power of belief towards the endless middle vision (thoughts that cannot be controlled, attenuated, but thoughts that come to me freely without restraint, as is when my body has made love with another), that owns and betroths me to my own ideas of what a supplicated existence should truly mean. But through these creations of the creator within me, and during those brain changing moments, my instinctual qualities are somehow memorized through the patterns of a vast layer of subsystems that my brain has been using for any number of years — because there inside of this world is an answer to every question that I’ve ever had. And it all comes down to this:
Living and Dying. A memoir of the mouth. A series of pale diagrams that explain nothing too deep that the mind can’t follow, yet full of well composed and fully rounded questions. My middle mind sees a bowl of bent swords and pierced plates of enamored armor, all of which recall the memory of when I was truly invincible and impregnable against the normalities of this embodied life. Living and Dying: a stand that the creator makes within that given lifetime to become worth more than s/he was before their fortuitous entrance into this world of wonders.
I suppose that alongside it all, this life has been a thunderstorm of ironic and semi-calculated observations, all of which have payed tribute during these last few months. And maybe it seems as though this fate, has been sealed; and the insight of a becoming, hundred-year light, can finally fill my heart without the conflict of moral decay. It can be noted that the actions that have led me to this point, have indeed made their shapes clear to me, by which the night indeed rolls on, far into the azure mist and its deep morning secrets. Alas, I await the toppings of a sleep that must be had.