Love of fate

Know thyself… where there thinnest membrane of mind, self, and will form the system of awareness of consciousness. It’s said that love feeds on many foods.

Mouth watering, mindlessness, succulent fluids of our dreams. Unconscious and subcutaneous feasts of delicious delusions. Eat it raw, bursting its soft skin with sharp teeth, fill yourself with your hunger for fearless searching. Dig in, gorge, and sleep deep after you’re feasting.

Time is both my best friend and my most feared enemy.

I’m 42 years old and l’ve lived a full life but it seems like I’m leaving the best for last. I’m still teachable, I’m still growing, I’m still evolving, and I’m still maturing. This poem is a reminder that life has been lived by countless predecessors, their lives have contributed to what we know life to be today. It’s an honor to walk this earth journey with loved ones, past, present, and future.

Sometimes a fall into defeat mindset, meaningless nihilism, and everything being a temporary as sand. But our life is an oasis in the sands of time. To live now is to know the universe, the source of all existence, and to touch the vast and strange mysteries of man’s entire history. When I look within, I find the most frightening unknown, the most unknowable unknown. Here, what we conceive of, as us, the foundation of knowing that we know, is a gift. The seams at two edges, those of order and oblivion, are stitched with a golden thread. This thread, this special string, and its needle are woven inside this strange design. I’ve pulled on this thread, to make it undone, following it back to its spool. Each thread I removed, made my blanket just that much colder, until I shivered beneath it. It was the edge of madness. But that golden line and needle did stitch me back, my lost parts were patched with a new cloth. Warmth returned and I’m eternally grateful

Begone. How can words contrive us and control us? How can marks in a row make us? How can they hold us? there’s freedom from these, these that you are now holding inside, holding to a vision of us. Representatives, sensitives, senses, tenses, tensions. a person can not have an identity without the signs that are made by these characters. Our characters, our actors. Act out Our hunger to be identifiable, cultural, optical. What’s that membrane, that’s permeated by the self and the social? Blind self image, spectacle of the self seen in the mirror of mind. never do you mind. You Perceive… then leave. Perceive…then leave. We Perceive, then we leave. We leave. We, Be, then leave. We…Be… leave and…are… gone.

The vessel joins us, we embark together. We huddle facing in, a face looks away. The emptiness at the center, a gape for a face. We turn incessantly, we form our protection. We protect the emptiness, one turns away to see your circle. My vessel fills and becomes bloated, turgid. It takes on the weight of the darkness, bursting at the seams. There stands a a snake amongst the circle, the snake now is standing. There is no up, and the snake stands in this circle. Next comes the fire, and we will see if we we crack apart. My arms are around you now. We stand together in a circle with the space inside.