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I remember that day, with my head hung low, when I had an epiphany.

The reality constructed for me has been a facade.

I’ve been deceived, and never before had to question my life path.

My surroundings. My upbringing. My self.

How I lived was what was,

What I knew must have been true,

Everything revolved around me.

Unwanted exposure brought on by eye contact

Fearing jugment and desperately, pathetically, wondering

How everyone else gets on

Aren’t the lies obvious?

Isn’t the pain unbearable?

Stop pretending to not know - the truth is shameless

I question the purpose of my current commitments

They mean nothing in the grand scheme of things

Accomplishments, establishment, growth, understanding

Faithless and jaded, irrational and uncomfortable

Never learned how to release what was held inside

Can’t do anything but attempt to try

Yes, that night the tears welled as I wondered why.

An epiphany struck me, that nothing was as it seems.

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what could i ever be missing

I don’t need someone else to

validate me, tell me of my worth

give me inspiration, fuel my passions

fulfill me, 

love me, nurture me

or give me life.

but as long as i think i do,

i will be at their mercy

hanging on to every word

like it’s the gospel, the absolute truth

subject to manipulation,

coercion, and inorganic thoughts.

arbitrary barriers will stifle self expression.

rationalizing, excusing behavior

that’ll stand out as a red flag when i reflect

is it true that i’m hard to love? that i’m not worthy of it? not enough?

my mind chimes in: yes! where did you go wrong? what do you do to make everyone abuse you - leave you? why? why? why is love torture, why is life pain?

taking a deep breath, grounded, i counter: disregard thoughts that claim to know an answer to these questions. just contemplate this moment, do not seek to solve. 

what is broken? what is lost? am i not complete as i sit here now? beyond the conceptual, what is love, where could it ‘go’? is it not here now? what more could be asked of this moment - is it not perfect just because it is?

i find myself carrying the thought of ‘i will never be loved’ and other negative thoughts around throughout the day, fixating on past moments as ‘proof’ in order to reinforce of the validity of the thought, all while going about my daily business. if i were to take a moment to pause dismiss the thought and disregard the memories, and instead focus on the task at hand, would they not cease to be true? wouldn’t it render the claim invalid? what makes the negative thoughts true besides my mind asserting that they are?

if the here and now is all there is, the past being only previous nows and the future only a now-to-be, then tell me - 

what could i ever be missing?

through the nature of the thoughts that arise when the mind is presented with these questions, the true issue is revealed... it is not that the thoughts bear any weight of truth, but it is how the mind speaks to you, what it says to you that reveals the methods it uses to manipulate you. 

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engaging the senses

The ‘White Christmas’ narrative seems to have elduded me this year, unless the sun’s rays count. I pause from writing to immerse myself in the moment, checking in with each sense to acknowledge the experience in full. Early afternoon’s sun shrouding me in a heat teetering on untolerable. Chaotic bird calls sound like rebellious punk in comparison to the instrumental percussion renditions of ‘Joy to the World’, ‘Come All Ye Faithful’ and other Christmas classics being projected from a neighbor’s lawn a few doors down. The faint scent of gardenia wafts in with the relieving, gentle breeze. On my left, the gardenia bush stands nearly ten feet tall and is kept borderline unruly. A solitary bloom is swarmed with insects seeking to get drunk on its intoxicating nectar. Passing cars mimic calm ocean waves crashing at the shore. Today would be an excellent day to saunder to the beach, only a measily ten miles away. 

Tempted by the prospect of the ocean, I attempted to walk there last week. Trapped in my brand of obsessive thought: an idea pops into my head (”walk ten miles to the beach!”) and I see no other choice but to satisfy that desire. Buses and car, even a bike, were available to me. Yet I set out on foot, aiming not to get to the beach as much as I wanted to prove to myself I could do it. After four hours, I arrived at Cocoa Beach Pier, feet aching and adorned with blisters. Immediately, but not nearly soon enough, I unlaced my well-worn Doc Martens. Designed to resemble a leather hiking boot but without the quality of one. The tread had smoothed out many hikes ago, leaving me to slip on leaves and wet stone if I was ignorant enough to wear them in nature. These were dcent urban hiking boots; concrete and asphalt, brick and stone were all suitable terrain. But at the beach, the shoes belonged in my hands being carried. Loose granules shift underneath each step and add a resistance not faced on a hard surface, a measure that inherently slows the walker down. Imagine walking on the innards of a bean bag chair, except the beads packed tighter. The closer I get to the water, the more water infiltrating the space between the grains of sand. The more firm and compact the sand, the more it acts like wet concrete.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, I bee-line into the water, going as deep as my romper rises. To weary feet, an ocean wave is a cold beer. For nearly a half hour I stood knee deep, letting the water mold itself around me. Rising and falling, waxing and waning... here too, I pause and engage the senses. Attempting to experience the moment through my body to get the “full effect”. Awareness travels to my feet, calves, shins, knees. I travel from the temperature of the water, the salty air, how dry my mouth was from an inadequate water supply. Taking it all in requires the shooing away of thoughts. “If I’m not careful,” I think, “my mind will steal this moment.” 

It’s true - the mind holds hostage my experience of this moment and others where consciousness is less prominent. The mind defines the sensations, labels them as good or bad, comfortable or uncomfortable, pleasant or unpleasant, happy or sad. Traps it in the world of duality and opposites. Reflecting on this memory I can only see in my mind’s eye snapshots of the day, can only describe with words. I cannot remember through my body. Even mustering up all the focus I’ve got, meditating and managing thoughts, I cannot place myself back in my body in that moment. Only in my mind. Though I know this, I still pause to engage my senses and subtly challenge my mind. Each moment is brand new, regardless of the action being taken or similarity of surroundings. Variations arise in the feeling, something the mind can only capture though abstraction. A description of a particular moment could inspire vivid imagery. But ultimately, you have no idea what it feels like to step into the ocean after a ten mile walk unless you do it yourself - and even then you can only claim your own experience. Not mine, or anyone else who has done the same. 

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unforeseeable

i asked how to inquire into the self.

you said the answer how follows the question why, 

once the wheels are set in motion,

as long as the intention is pure

and the heart determined, 

the rest will fall into place.

so with this i reflect and smile knowingly,

recognizing that at one point

i questioned why and gave that inquiry

an endorsement of purity

and remained steadfast 

in the unforeseeable, yet promised arrival of the answer how

which, as it turns out,

made possible our convergence

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constraint with the virtue of hindrance

approaching a shrub adorned with offerings,  brilliant, enticing, absorbing nature’s intoxicating nectar, wafting,  beckoning and leaving you breathless, captivated by the dichotomy of how complexity can present itself so simply a furrowed brow and pursed lips project frustration and the inability to accept that such fierce beauty was not created solely to be consumed by the flames of passion constraint with the virtue of hindrance

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What could be an anchor here, With a storm on the rise? When you never meant to see so clear, When smoke gets in your eyes And the man in the moon Never makes his replies understood

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cardamom and clove

I am truth and you resemble grace you came from ruthless mercy  strip me of all that we suppose naked as an infant whose vulnerability summons its own protection the soft, insurmountable strength of persistence water, a well of hope generous with potential everywhere has nowhere to hurriedly go held in trust and respect gently;  not the clutching of idolatry. let us be reminded that our forms are indications  let’s not forget the capital letter in this Love transform the cold, the calloused; carnal into the warm, the supple; sacred raise the curtain from the stage  shine a spotlight at the void I want a standing ovation for the neglected parts of you I’m listening for applause with every failure I exude We’re kneeling at the altar in the temple of what Is my heart is here my eyes are burning I’m here to worship, bless You know, I’ve heard that God does dishes like some mangum-opus verse and that nothing ever bores you If your heart has touched it first and that truth and grace are dancers while the two of us keep time here now, here now, here now it’s in this moment we’re aligned 

The very thing we’ve come to gain  It’s the very sacrifice we make  You have always been this Spirit  you have always been All Soul but you’ve disguised yourself as human so that you’ve been recognized and spoken to as familiar although I don’t claim to understand you... I just see you thank you each moment is christened when I’m mindful of your Love I’m an emblem in your pattern just a speck swirled in your breeze forgive me with a knowing smile when I seek to contain You,  I should rather be your fulcrum A service offered complimentary, components, the marriage of movement and rest we cannot be exhausted  I have never been without you and now, I never want to be again.

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Would you like to go skinny dipping together sometime? I’m completely anonymous and this has nothing to do with Jacob. Ok thanks.

i’d love to go skinny dipping in the ocean of emotional intimacy ~ or we could just crack open a shower beer

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irrepressible energy

the opportunity to end ambivalence presents itself. my psychic skin slashed abruptly, bled white, so as to bare witness to the aftermath.  peace of mind compromised,  rooting for a healing process, faith put to the test, patience challenged. is there a vaccine for the plague of unattainable, unsustainable fantasies?

may withholding never be considered and  the caulk of defenses be refused. self-immolation over inevitability of connection, irrepressible energy, tempt me back to bliss

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blessed by the earth essence

A morning conversation about methods of meditation. Ask and you shall receive. A day of rain came promising growth if only we're receptive to Mother Nature's lessons of acceptance. Blessed by her essence, each drop cleansing my soul and challenging notions of what is uncomfortable. This must truly be living, I rejoice, embracing unfamiliar sensations and experiencing in the most raw way possible. Questioning why I previously shunned rainy days, wondering why moments like these once inspired melancholy, because now I only see the magic in the weather. 

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perpetual exhaustion

I see you when you look at me, how you look at me, into me... and I wonder if you really know what you want from me. If you know what you'd be getting into, or if you're privy to what my soul is expressing. I don't think you do. Am I a representation of qualities you lack? Does that make you want to get next to me with hopes that some of that purity, that light and warmth, will rub off on you? Maybe so. But would you want to create with me? Laugh and play with me? Get lost in exploration of different modes of expression? Maybe so... and will I stick around to know for sure? Will I run as soon as I get bored? My heart can't take this perpetual exhaustion, so at first sign my mind issues caution. Urging myself not to close off or project and to suss out the now, observe and be reserved in making moves. Perhaps one way to tell if you truly are looking at my being rather than my person, is to return your gaze, to linger there and be open to the possibility of divine, pure intention. To shy away is to make that decision for you and that is not fair.

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esoteric explanations and the dichotomy of days

"No" is a word I run around, rather provide long-winded, esoteric explanations for undesired behavior. Simply put: I don't respect my own boundaries. When I see a barrier to carnal desires, I react. When it looks as though I won't get my way, I fight until I do. Get through by any means necessary, til I'm satisfied... momentarily. Instant gratification enraptures me, then as soon as I'm content, the floor drops out beneath me. The plan works as well as the machine carries it out, the machine functions as I intended, as emotion dictated action. No progress has been made on these half-assed goals, and I've got no reason to be shocked by simple cause and effect. Yet I wonder why I'm not getting a different summation for the same equation. It's been said that insanity is expecting a new solution from repeating the same steps that led to a dead end. Driving down the road of hope, headed straight for madness. Thinking perhaps this time will be different, and maybe this time i'll get it. Maybe this time I'll understand why I'm so afraid to be uncomfortable. Each time expecting perfection and ease of execution, though unprepared and too scared to release this delusion. Oh, the dichotomy of my days. Abundance, my enabler, humble me by rejecting my requests.

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i yearn for a conversation beyond words, because a phrase is only as meaningful as the ability of language is reliable at accurately articulating emotion

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a sick desire for self abuse

I’m smart enough to recognize when I’m being distracted, when I’m intentionally distracting myself from uncomfortable feelings and emotions. I know exactly where I fall apart: right on the verge of a breakthrough. Right when uncomfortable feelings arise.

I’ve already been made aware of the lessons and opportunity for growth, and I can already pinpoint my shortcomings. When I choose to enter into the cycle again, I do so consciously.

Something hasn’t been working. I need to re-evaluate my approach to this “problem”, this barrier to my expansion. Instant gratification hijacks my reward system. I can’t forget this. It takes my attention away from my goals and priorities and places it on satisfying a desire. I’ve observed how I can go from a three day fast to a three day binge. That is, from self mastery to self destruction. When temporary pleasure is allowed access into my space and given permission to siphon off energy. When my mood shifts or dips, I shift from purely observing my state of being to acting out thoughts and emotions. I trap myself, but I know exactly how to get out of my own trap. I am not destined to suffer and recognize that this pain and resistance does not belong to me, it is not a part of who I am. It is information being given to me to help me break through. It is my guide, and along with my intuition, they will never lead me astray.

Ask myself what the emotions and feelings are attempting to convey to me. Lean into them and sit with them. Listen to them - what do they say about how far I still have to go? It is not about destroying my past, but about building my future.

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bring on the night

My madness is unavoidable. The trap set for me, inescapable. Torture chamber of a body. Maybe it’s an issue of perspective, acting out of self-interest… Hold my breath and plunge under water, Curious how long I’ll last. Fear not on my behalf. Temporary is the nature of a state. Willing to surrender myself to the darkness, But I shy away from the light. I stand behind complacency Not as an act of endorsement. Love will always be a lesson, Stay out of its way. As tempting as wanderlust. As enticing is an unavailable lover. Farewell my quiet heart, For the wilderness calls. Here I come, galloping upon a dark horse.

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mistakes make me salivate

How bad is it willing to get?

I ask myself questions without expectation of a response.

My body is a dummy tied to a chair, and I am force feeding it pleasure. We have a one-sided conversation. I make myself sick. Punitive acts don’t taste so sweet when carried out with permission.

Ironic that the answer to my problem lies in the habits I’ve spent years creating. The behavior that I use to punish myself elicits physical pleasure. When inflicted, my body is overcome with chemical bliss, stimulated then sedated into silence. That combination is confusing, because I crave more of what feels good but too much becomes quite painful. I don’t stop when I’ve had enough, instead I override the cries for ceasefire and push my notions of uncomfortability. Imagine if this was used for my empowerment. The idea is the same.

I can feel my poor choice pulsing through my veins. Alas, the pain is the only sensation I’m left with and it’s maddening.

She knocked on the door and I let her in. I even sent her an invitation in the mail. She RSVP’d to let me know what time she’d be there. She came bearing her teeth; I gave her the gift of life.

Mistakes make me salivate.

How far am I willing to go?

I know.

God knows. Ordered forfeiture of my divinity. The homing beacon that was lit “just in case” has burned out and has yet to be replaced. Shame’s burden crooks the neck.

May ignorance prevail nevermore.

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“You’re only creative when you smoke weed,” she tells me, though I’m not convinced. “It enhances your focus and your process of visualization. You’re more in tune with the rhythm of music; you can pick out each instrument clearly. The sensations are much more intense, so if you smoked, then explored various mediums of art you’d be able to expand your creative side. You’d be opened up to new avenues that you haven’t walked before. Your eyes would open wider, you’d be a better artist.” “All the experiences I’ve had would lead me to agree with you, but I don’t know… are you saying I owe my gifts to weed and weed alone?” “Of course I am, don’t you remember where you were before you started smoking? You didn’t have a creative outlet whatsoever. Everything that needed to be released welled up inside of you until you couldn’t handle it anymore. But those first months of smoking were pure bliss, right? Taking a hit of the bowl, laying back in bed, and listening to music with your headphones in… shit, having a full-on spiritual connection to the sounds. It felt like having a super power.” “That’s true, I do remember that…” She picks up where I trail off, “Then, when you started to get serious about singing, weed helped you enter your ‘zone’ of meditative focus where anything else around you faded away. It helped you visualize your breath moving throughout your body, helped you channel it and release it. Reminisce on that night where you heard your soul for the first time, and all the other times you’ve been able to express so unapologetically. What do those nights all have in common?” Reluctantly, “I was high” She’s laying out a persuasive argument, but still I question her burning desire to convince me that I’d be better off smoking every day when she knows how I’ve struggled with it. How my addiction to it has bled into our relationship and put a strain on it. Behaving irrationally due to being unable to regulate my mood after a daily series of intense highs and lows. If she had been present at all throughout the past five years she would see the pattern that has formed. Yet, she’s pressing, insisting that I hold onto what holds me back from reaching my full potential. She genuinely believes that my creativity sources from marijuana. Am I stepping into another world entirely when I inhale the smoke? My spirit feels awakened, not created. What I’ve really got to figure out is how to awaken my creative spirit on my own, with focus and fearlessness. It’s not like I’m in a trance where the plant is making decisions for me - but rather I gain confidence from weed’s guidance. All that falls away when I start abusing weed by not putting any effort into sustaining that zone for myself. Moderation falls to the wayside and I begin to tie in my emotional well being with how often I smoke. I lose my joy, my focus, my discipline, and my motivation when my mind learns it can obtain intense pleasure quickly. I don’t have the confidence to enter into a creative zone without weed. “I hear what you’re saying, but I know the path getting high leads me down. It’s destructive, and I’m trying to be constructive. I’ve got a reservoir of ideas waiting to be tapped into, and I feel like when I free myself from my attachment to weed I’ll have access to it. Maybe you’re right and I’ll be boring and lifeless without weed. It’s ironic that a life lived high is one that drags you so low, and I’ve lived that life for the past five years. What is uncertain is what life is like without THC in my system, without the addiction spirit taking over my body and forcing me to carry out its will compulsively. I’m willing to take the leap of faith and go sober without the guarantee that I’ll ever experience sensation as intensely as I do while high.” She backs off, as she knows when my mind is made up I won’t budge. We’ll meet again in a moment of weakness, this I’m sure of.