The grief of disintegration, the gentle bird call in the morning, the breaking apart of the illusions I've had, the shedding of old skin. Nothing old is left, everything feels new, full of possibility. It's a soft and glowing truth, but always with an edge of metallic death and the whispers of the underworld.
I'm in the underworld now. In a way, we all are. I welcome it. I can breathe here. No lies, no deception, bare boned, bleached white, the dirt, the roots, the fertile ground. It would never lie to you. The fog has cleared from my eyes.
What does it say to you, down here in the shimmering dark. Encrusted gemstones. Velvet moss. Deep indigo.
I am made up of all my experiences to this point, broken down to the bone, creaking up stairs and dusty corridors, walking away from holes in the ground, eyes ahead.
I have no illusions of ease, I know what this life has wrought, and yet I see the glowing gold visions of hope, the truth of being alive; blood pumping through my veins, purple sunsets, moments of kindness. I survived up til now. Each soft moment sinking deeper into my heart. Added to my list of what we're all here for, if not for these we'd all break apart, lose the way, sink deep in swamp waters. But the pinpricks of light, the glow of the water, the paths. The lighted paths; an escort of lavender, boughs of pine. Initiation.
Beneath the trees in the underworld the spiders remind you we all go back to the dirt. But so much more than just that, we ascend, we uplift. How deep do we go, what are we really made of, and I promise it is not just flesh and blood.
Because how do we feel so deeply and profoundly, carry the cargo of devotion. To the people we care about, the things we make, the breeze in the afternoon, the sensual experience of a story so all penetrating that it makes you cry? This is why we are here. To feel this. To feel it all.
I see the mountainous horizon, a million stars, an open skyway, the rustling fields of the future. The vast landscape, the elegant carpet of humanity aspiring to rise above the patterns of the past, the elegant carpet of my own soul unraveling and reweaving, nothing is set in stone. Everything is unraveling. We are all burned bare.
I'm glad. I commit.
I commit to you, the glistened puddle, the blade of grass, the dew.
I commit to you, the kind voices, the carpet, soft and weighty, the dust motes and fireflies and lapping waves, the paintings, the ink lines, weaving in and out of our souls. Up my left arm right to my heart-when I made a promise, deep, painful, permanent, etched into my skin, that I'd never let the darkness fuck with me. I didn't know it then but I do now. Only light gets in.
The sacred books, myths churned out, subconsciously saving us from ourselves, reminding us all of the small heroes within, around us, the paths of those before who never gave up no matter the cost.
We are the gods of our future, we translate the language of the earth if we listen longer than usual, and they are always waiting, waiting for us to look up.
Look up, look up, always looking up, aspiring to the light.
Will you join me