She has a delicate voice, redolent of secret inspiration, not often used. There is the high-pitched panic that drones like angry bees, chaotic, insistent. That voice is not hers, but of her demons, flaying, cackling, castigating, sizzling knives flown from angry hands. She doesn't notice. It is all done as pyrotechnic effect while consciousness bathes in restraint, senses restricted to calm, to cleanse, safe inside.
There is another voice, sure as ocean rain, forceful as gunshot on a silent night. When we hear its tune, we listen. Pure bell that sings only Truth, it is in our sacred core to listen. That voice is rare and wonderful, the essence of beauty. The more we listen, in awe, compassionate wisdom takes hold, we become attuned. We become the voice of welcome, of familiar kind regard. We become complicitous encouragement.
She is stronger more able, vibrant in song. We are all learning to sing, dance, play, in this world we create, build in conversation, in turning conceptions from experience into a private wealth from each to each, teachers and students on the art of renaming.
Mobs of ignorant, angry people. Too loud to hear anything useful. Nothing to be done. Leave them alone. Find a free meadow under the sky.
Call for the cheer that carries carefree souls. Stars far from here calling our craft home. We've made our career a matter of energy. Sing of Summer surf, held close to mystery. Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight.
Watery imagery -- the ocean that meant to keep me so many years ago. I become a swimmer, a survivor in the storm. I don't know why. It wasn't my idea to be strong. I didn't think, just let my body work along from one plane to the next.
Ending life of the day. Descending into fetid disgrace. Is that so attractive? Is that reason to negate possibility of choice? Choose to negate a life that is never truly yours. Better the degradation than devil's compromise to consensual reality's unmeetable demands, measurements. But, like suicide, unspeakably worse, a mortal sin, to give in to bestial temptation. How can I explain? One whiff and life as conceptualized in dayplanner delineation loses all continuity, protection from chaos, impossible to pick up such raveled stitch.
Lords of violence, long conjured into real enough fear again. Pimping for Jehovah? Sneer for the big screen. We learn to fear from what attacks every day. I don't accept being weak, self-protection demanding imprisonment to stave off temptation. I elect representation, prescient shadows, to pay my penance, ritually claim my soul.
A powerful self-devised agent to promote my best interests.
Rats, spiders, assorted displaced vermin, semi-feral humans, scrabble through garbage, stagnant remnants of rain and refinement, to no good end. Children grow consuming what is available, what is given or taken. Revised as zombies -- no minds worth saving, subsisting on dead flesh and legendary fear. How can dreams cope?
After brief eternity, given the designation "life," simple, mundane sensuality -- slimy tears dissolve eye grit; sore structural muscles ease into melodious jazz.
This peculiar Hades Bohemia reflects like jewel facets, bioluminescent charms. Too bad those chained to arms, deprived of what arms can claim to feel fulfilled, seek release in arms defined to kill or to be killed.
Why should death's mystery entice so much more than life's? What hope the best of men survive death's fiery trial? Why insist, assume, the bond of flesh is blood consumed, all against every? Where is ecstasy of hand touching hand?
It may well be about discovering one's ideals and working toward them. It is certainly not about having it all together from the get go.
Yet, essence, possibilities inherent in living seed grown in potent mixtures (tinctures for violent bifurcation, strictures, intricate captivating lulls) for acculturation, captive imagination, long walks that suddenly awaken questioning: "Where am I going? Who is this "me" that has a destiny or merely flits along prevailing wind?" That wandering devolves to slumber. No one to remember, holding on to random sensory familiarity. Don't trust the mirror. Aging eyes have looked too far for reliable witness. They love to lie, lazy, wistful -- if wishes could be more real than these fantasies, murals tied to greasy walls -- self-made Hell.