The end of a cycle returns and we’re back to where we started.
Fresh and fore-folded.
Waiting to bloom in summer’s spring.
Doesn’t it all seem so easy…
And yet, there is a reminder of that constant immediate nag –a pulling towards.
Craving it’s very self.
The anxiety born of uncertainty, an attentive pulse upon the knowledge of our own ignorance, or perhaps the realization of a being so purely liberated that one cannot help but sense the enormity of a rawness rooted in unrealized power, the human gain, an immediacy of freedom -perhaps, at last!
All of this, strangling the will into a chaotic happenstance.
They both know they’ve escaped the cycle of society’s dancing woo. That game we’ve all played and continue to entertain. And yet, the carnal craving to unite possesses them both.
(Mere attachment, the underestimated hand of possession drives them both forward hopelessly.) And yet, sincerely, recklessly, and regardless, their play continues.
Of course, the end of a cycle implies a new beginning. Some other turning, almost causative, a spinning of the wheel –Dharma.
A wide-bellied, grinning fire-mouth glares from the back of my perceptive lens.
“What shall you do now?” The Beast speaks in silence.
It’s a trap.
Doing anything implies cyclical return. Even with one step, you commit to climbing a combative ladder. So, I stand there. Neither thinking, nor doing. In fact, nothing. The Beast flares.
Or, be frozen.
An excitement of spring reminds me of the beauty of the fall. Another question perturbs the moment, “How do we, or will we, survive the winter?”
Well, we have. Time and time again, we last.
I look outside the window through the panes of silica and notice the clouds melting away into a tumultuous sea of blue sky. The sunlight blooms. Golden rays align and still, there I stand. The overriding prominence of an immediate grace is hindered by another presumption.
“What to do?”
“Enter again? Avoid? Be?”
Duality is presumptive. Comparison relinquishes our true nature. Stuck, we are in three poisons.
It’s an overwhelming sensation; attachment that is, but not to what is. To purge oneself in a bitter victory is to depart from the world, as they say, to fly solo, at least momentarily and reconnecting without possession, judgment, or expectation of another form is nothing short of a miracle, our very nature.
Am I falling back to where I was?
Glowing polyamory. Can we love more than one?
Those eyes. True, contact?
This goes on…
Is it in the how to do this or just more repetitious Why?
Mild-mannered and premature speculation override the presence of an attentiveness needed most at the fore-front.
I’m lost in this new world, though rambling has ceased. At least, for the moment, questioning stops. I remain. Again, like it was before but quieter. The difference is with the end of a cycle there is a pause of recollection. A surging revival, Dante’s escape, surmounting from a Herculean hellhole. A brief blast of bitter despair goes sullenly. By now, it’s continued long enough to see the whole span –span. Now, if we can only prevent repeat, is this even possible? Repetitively embracing new feats. The fear of originality, mystery as origin, sinks in. This newness surrounding me is swallowing. Old behaviors, in new phases, and a familiar self, one avoids.
To void, we say in a midnight’s cheers and she’s out. That innocent laugh where her hand sinks into her sweater and the sleeve guises her maroon-stained lips whilst she’s laughing. Never has there been a more innocent moment between us. At least, for now. That’s all we have.
Kill me, it’s been so long since I’ve felt this way.
Unfamiliar madness driven by vague lust.
Falling for dangerous beauty.
Again & again, a reposed disposal. Dumped and dittled. Have me. Use me. Just don’t bare me.
Outcries of premature remorse.
We must always consider the fade.
We are reaching the primal core now and there’s no looking back. Truly, a new cycle with old familiarities. We repeat –no escape. Our reproach? Commit. Do until done. Thou wilt, not my way but through me is all that matters. Past the confines of even, self-imposed discipline. Further, yet further! This strange being lingers away the day. Overcome the temptation to react as you used to. Use this to grow in some new unscathed, reasonable fashion.
Either way, you are spiraling. Down seems to pessimistic. Rising this early seems unlikely, a casual narcissism at best.
So we spiral:
At least until, we notice the cycle has returned. Full course. We are back to where we started. The bottom. The top. Here. There. An ‘I’ remain as the screen changes. As all is new and full of life, we all are not so different. Thoughts are. Ideas are. Plans are. Expectations are. Wishes are. Dreams are. The plays I imagine, my personal speculation about how things will go which is usually misconstrued, are. And then we realize the vicissitudes of a cycle are unavoidable.
Rotting remnants that need to enjoy solitude and company before they are gone. Today, nonetheless! No more black or white scenes on the screen. Blend, I say! Blend!
Let us bow to blend!
And praise the grey –and the non-grey. The uber-grey and the unter-grey. Life, this life, is about combating grey, to see it from new angles, new interiors of living properly, perceptively, and more thoroughly. Through a wider scale of emotive resonance, compassionate compatibility, a sympathetic glare, and a much wider transition of breaking attachment through the transformation of perception –escaping how we see the Other and accepting our encounters with each other in vast arms of embrace, as we would our very selves.
But enough grey for now.
Platinum cut braids, shadows of dark eyeliner remain, subtle bareness, and those lips alive… God, those fucking lips.
Woo me every time, a smile.
Force my hand gray, and shine light upon my buried entrenchments.
O’confineth by such is thine heart
Which has broken unto me
Hath not we lost
This , very race
For while is our search
And at once!
We were born.
Into the cosmic gray
And all was floating
and all as right
The good was finally golden.
As it always was
Allow the blend to vibe.
Until we reach again the confined conviviality of the heart, I say to you again, be grey of glory. Lessen two. For I am sure that yours is split –grey, and mine is too.
We are melting in experience.
Where colours abound.
And if seen properly, illuminated shades spark up and down our lives into a motion beset by the stars of hope allowing us the fortuity of being in a moment, this moment of Every, and finally accepting where we are, and as we are. And as life remains, if only we’d return to accept where we’ve always been.
For the while is ever-present.