Queen cobra
Who can decide for me? I am the only one here. I call everything in.
“It is impossible for anything to be lost. The little flower which has bloomed once, blooms forever. It is invisible to you here with your limited focus, but it blooms forever in the larger dimension of your being, and tomorrow you will encounter it.”
— Neville Goddard
I thought about writing about the dissolution of us. I did.
It seemed reasonable, pragmatic, even profitable.
Personal devastation often makes for interesting reading material, so I thought about writing about the dissolution of Us but by the time I sat to put the words into order, it was already a beautiful cold blue day in February. The espresso was a hot dark potion on the desk and out of the bathroom, mist tumbled on fuzzy legs, after-bath pregnant with secrets from the spirtual world. And I was wrapped up in the sudden magic recalling that love by its nature simply never dies.
The past does not exist, the future is seductive and compelling fiction, and there is never any us at all: just my I and my I reflected. As well as all that, I felt love thrumming around my acrylic nailed typist fingers like a constant aura—visions of turquoise, teal, and silver spun out from my thumb nail, my index and pinkie. Sensual and primitive. I Google searched the symbolic meaning of turquoise and found: “Wisdom, tranquility, protection, good fortune, and hope. Ancients believed in its profound power to protect, as well as its tranquil energy and its association with enduring love.”
I wish to write from my anger, to excite you and perhaps inject you into a sort of trance, but I find that I sort of cannot. It might be fun but I wouldn’t believe it much. It’d be a bad performance. If there are many rooms within myself, I see now that some have remained unknown to my I for ages, missing, even, out of pure negligence and fear—disbelief of another luscious space that could be my dwelling. I have taken up residency down the hall from where I once was.
I took with me my satin robe, my laptop to type, my hope my prayers my bright heart my meditation. I brought the moka pot and the tiny brown cups. I no longer understand my old drawn curtain shades and my simmering fear of the world. And the view is gorgeous from here—listen. I call everything in. Flowers grow without needing to be fed by anything of this world. They bloom because I consider them bloomed. I am all liquid. Slink away do my questions of worthiness. I am all fertile.
Who can decide for me? I’m the only one here in my I. I call everything in.
This devastation I imagined long before it happened: it was my birthright, I believed that. I imagined my own disposability, and how abandonable I was. I imagined that I was not so bright at all, and that you possessed something I could not obtain. You were outside of me, I was ineffectual. Imagination saw me being weak, miserly, in need, and so I was. I weaved this vision meticulously, unconsciously, I dreamt the darkest fog of dreams into materials.
I was meticulous, a psychosomatic sorceress. I knew exactly what it would feel like: I sat in it, I appropriated it unto myself. If life is a game played in the field of the mind, I’ve been betting on my grief. Don’t think against yourself. I touch now my dreams—I dislike them, but I do not fret. I only rearrange the source of these seemingly solid fixtures. Because solid they will be.
Solid into daylight out of daydream, they’ll come.
I laugh, and the sound lands and sticks on the breeze. Wish I could deliver you my tempest, my dark night of the soul, if not for everything then for the sake of winter reading, sensitive exposure, disastrous camaraderie. I wish I could make this all about men or attachment theory, childhood psychology or 21st century dating—whatever has a ring to it. I wish this text could be an ass-naked woman running out into impossible snow-drifts just for you, adorned in nothing but animal furs and rage just for you, because I know that you would love her, that you might see yourself in her or wish to be her. But there is nothing to do in the world outside, there is nothing to change. I see now that I have been doing nothing with my energy but attempting to rearrange shadows. But I am the light that casts the shadows and tells them where they go. It is all a reflection of my inner-position; this inner-position moves to claim my outer.
This entry initially began:
“I am alone in the opiatic drudge of these heartbreak days. Toronto is cold and I don’t feel like going out or seeing people. Snow comes and disappears. Single again but that is not the pain-point. Personal, personal. How to not take it personally. Retail therapy: I want to be close to something beautiful. Chocolate musk perfume oil, a Holy Bible bound in white leather, Dior lipstick 300 Nude Style. Nothing helps. Instinctually, my body remembers where we have been before, emotion-states that felt close to this, and the resonance is irresistible, so dark vortex-like and heavy. It calls upon our other disasters, old devastations that sit now like faded coins on the floor of our personal history—surveying the desolation, we arrive at the natural conclusion. I am alone.”
“Unworthy, non-satiating. These coins are good for nothing. Can’t explain it. Objectively—not personal. Couldn’t be. I was a troubled angel, as was he. I thought. Now I see: He could be something different, something I can’t help, save, restore. I miss the one who threw this darkness over my days. Yes, the black curtains are drawn. Nothing enchants me. I dream of reuniting, clearing the savage obstructions of the past, letting fresh love pour in like through a dam, gushing, wet, eternal, orgasmic. Burning inside—waves of desire. The taste of him lives on within me. He exists in the bursting and swelling of songs, the cacophony of nocturnal music, and where do I exist? I swim in oceans drying out. Half-asleep, half-dreaming at all times.”
It unsettles me how naturally I throw my power away. Up and at it, queen cobra, you are not over yet. Yes, love is beautiful, and it is hard when it gives the illusion of disappearing for a moment. But...I continued:
“Still, I fail to feel totally destroyed. There is something hopeful about a purifying fire that arrives to take away all that is sordid, dark, and dull, removing the impurities, the most brittle parts of a structure. Now I have this shadowed land all to myself, I have my hands, my feet, my visions, my dreams. I have the blocks with which to build—blocks of faith and intention. The sun will rise again and when it does we will go dancing.”
And there my natural disposition seemed to remember itself. Joy-and-love-and-gratitude, everything rushing through me like a pink stream, beaming between my breasts and legs, my painted green toes, my pineal gland: I am in awe of all of this. Let me walk through my memories and make them sweeter, saying sorry to the ones I want to hear sorry from. I cloak myself in white light and rise, telling the truths that I did not then tell. Anger eludes me, it is so molten and melts forever. The anger was good for a handful of midnights and then I found myself in the perfecting light of no longer claiming to be principessa patetica.
Heaven Surrounds Us Like A Hood by Yves Tumor. I have to include this because I have been listening to it since 11pm and it’s now 2:09 in the morning and it is consequently infused into this update.
Hera Drape Top from Weekday. It says it’s “Dusty Grey” but IRL this top is a really nice slate blue almost-green/grey color. So cute and makes me feel so put together even if it’s technically a really basic piece.
Fiction and love letter writing. ᥫ᭡ First screenshot is from a short story I was inspired to write that I love but don’t know if I will get the energy to see all the way through. I hope I do. I saw the name “Concetta” on a tombstone in an Italian cemetery and was captivated by it. I knew that I wanted to try writing a story with that name. I like that it sounds like “concept” which is what the story is about. Concepts killing love.
My new contacts from Just4Kira in Neala Green. I blame the fact that I think color contacts are actually 100% sexy fun and gorgeous on my 1H Hasta Rahu in my navamsa but they are wildly mesmerizing technology to me.
5. Smelling sweet. Victoria Secret VERY SEXY fine fragrance lotion I love to put on before bed. I got the Angel Nova Eau de Parfum from Mugler to try it out and it’s delicious. Really fruity and feminine. The Choco Musk oil perfume rollerball by Al-Rehab is divine, super subtle but long lasting.
Until next time,
“Still, I fail to feel totally destroyed. There is something hopeful about a purifying fire that arrives to take away all that is sordid, dark, and dull, removing the impurities, the most brittle parts of a structure. Now I have this shadowed land all to myself, I have my hands, my feet, my visions, my dreams. I have the blocks with which to build—blocks of faith and intention. The sun will rise again and when it does we will go dancing.” YYYYYESSSS! This was beautiful <3. Thx for sharing your world with us Dom.
i loved this so much.