lavieaurore - Tumblr blog

[lavieaurore]

the occult implications of large parts of modern society being okay with "pleather" and "vegan leather" (plastics and micro plastics existing everywhere from placentas to the bottom of the ocean), rather than using the skins of animals who will ultimately die no matter what we do

[lavieaurore]

 tbh i fully believe that healthy kids should be getting in some stupid trouble.

like, a child that’s in trouble all the time, frequently skipping school, getting caught doing crimes? that’s a kid that desperately needs literally any positive attention. that kid needs help. obviously.

but a child that is perfectly well-behaved, never speaks up for themself, is seen and not heard? that’s a child that’s afraid. they also need help.

[lavieaurore]

I dreamt our skin was wrapped around the moon and we feasted on the howling

Make love to me, tear my skin apart with your teeth

Resurrect me, cover my roots with your dark soil

We are deadly to each other and there’s nothing to repent

Nothing to save

Nothing to excuse

This is not love for those who seek absolution

I am sinner

Deviant

Corrupted

For you

For you

My purity drips from me, waterfall, and you grasp it with your mouth

We are never empty and never satiated

On the third day I exit the cave

And enter your bed

And we rise

We aren’t hopeless or hopeful

We feed each other

We are meals

Your body is sacrament

Let us pray

[lavieaurore]

They said he corrupted me.

But I'm the devil.

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Chribbzz on twitter

[lavieaurore]

I see the child as something that I’m not, anymore.

She’s there, within, safe. She was always safe. She moves with me through every experience, all of them. But she isn’t the one that directly experiences them.

She feels them, like a breeze.

She is, in some way, wombed. Cocooned within. Sucking in nutrients, protected from blows. Never sheltered from the mistakes. Prioritized. Because she is the potential. She is what will continue after.

But it’s not me. I am not her the way I used to be. She died so that something else could emerge. And she also didn’t die, it’s more as if she just returned to her inception.

And when this body goes perhaps she is then made free from her encapsulation and reborn as the Phoenix in me. As the sacred ember I protect. And I grow.

But no, no I don’t feel her the way I was when I was child in body. Something is lost so I can keep her and in keeping her I also lose the relationship of the past.

Longing for someone. Something. Some way. Maybe the truest need that unlocks a deep dive into the chaos. You go into the muck to retrieve the elements that will make what you require to evolve. You can’t order them but that’s not you anyway. You bring them here to be seen and we assemble together.

Hence why we long together. We are called into the sacred. Have you known a life without this understanding? Where nothing calls you? I don’t know if it. I never feel free from this longing.

Is God the song or the symphony playing? The instruments? The possibility of the encounter? The music sheet?

What moves chaos into order? How long until the possibility of something is manifested as the most evolved outcome?

Would you understand your evolution in the moment you experience it, through the movement of time? Or would it seem as if you were being gutted?

Is that longing? The pull of elements into new elements that long for what they already know from inception they will become?

Chaos is the possibility of order. Child the possibility of evolution. Child into maturity into womb and back to child and into new order.

We do not belong to ourselves.

For a brief moment in time I saw the child I was and I experienced her. And she fell into the world. Then God called and now I’m something else.

And I have spent many years wondering how I felt about this. I don’t know. I am an orphan of my lineage. No one to show me what I was growing out of. I am mapping out the story as I experience it. No roots. No compass. Human living in a time of magnetic disturbances, out of synch. Poles reversing. In the micro and the macro, of the seen and the unseen.

There are always bridges.

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

1 Corinthians 13:11

[lavieaurore]

The Seventh Seal - by Yuri Hill

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“I’ve found that growing up means being honest. About what I want. What I need. What I feel. Who I am.”

— Epiphany

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The greatest high is to be alone at night in utter silence, just me and the presence of something magical, something that I have known since I was a child.

You play a song now. Listen. Listen.

Silence. Exhale. Feels good to not be.

Play again. Repeat.

No drug ever hooked me the way this solitude does. God, I will hurt the people that love me just for moments with it. Is this my drug? My addiction? Is this God? Am I blessed with ecstasy or cursed with the ever constant horror of death? Does it matter?

I hurt them because they love me and think that love entitles them to a contract. I love them and want them to stop looking for me. I am not this person they see. Are they loving me or the roles we play? Can they love what isn’t? Can they love death? Can they love the empty?

Maybe to you this is a sickness that needs a cure, but I am beyond that line. I have crossed. There is no cure to what we are.

I don’t want to be healed. I don’t care. Pain doesn’t scare me the way it scares them. Maybe it doesn’t scare them, maybe what I saw in him is what scares you too. The crossing of the line into madness.

You’re afraid you’re like me. You fill yourself to ignore the void.

I love black holes. I can love you and be destroyed by it. I have crossed. I have paid the price. But I love it here. You don’t have to join. I miss you. I will always miss you.

Has you mother ever searched through your room in search of clues about who you are? The look on my mother’s face when she found my diary, the look of a mother scared for her daughter. They fear the home I inhabit and try kick me out of it. Maybe I reminded her that the nightmare is never too far away from the dream.

I don’t want anyone to bore me with their ideas about my pain. It’s not romantic, it’s not tragic. It’s me, as me as the bones in my body. They will be ash one day, will be dirt. But that’s not up to them. My pain doesn’t need healing, I don’t need comforting words. I don’t need hope.

I don’t know what keeps me going but it’s not hope. I open doors all the time.

Drugs never appealed to me because I get high from despair. I touch the bottom and it arouses me. It beats me up. I bleed. I return to the silence at 3 am like an addict. Nothing else has me.

There it is, God. There you are. I open the door and..

I don’t cry for help. No one is coming. It’s beautiful here. It’s simple. I have accepted because I wasn’t offered a choice. Fuck. You still think about choices don’t you?

He was right about me, I weaponize love. I’m a junkie. I’m no better. I’m no saint, no holy woman. I despise anyone that believes me to be better than them. I despise anyone that believes me broken. I don’t care at all. To care is to have investment into an outcome and it’s all neutral here. It’s all perfect as is.

They want me to care and pour myself in their small needs, but I just serve something so uninterested. I have masked all of it in the shittiest clothes I could, I made no effort to be anything. Sure I tried at times, it was as if I wanted to try their way, I was curious. I wanted to see if it made me feel anything the way they seem to feel. And I got lost there, just like you. I gave of me, all of it.

Choice? No. We are instruments in our own ways. Played. Used. Touched. Exhausted. Torn. Fantastic. Customisable.

I touched despair again and I woke up in the forest naked, the cold air almost froze my lungs and I cried out of joy.

In the silence I am perfectly whole. In the nothing I know myself.

I am the black hole. Human. Foreign. Empty. Playable. Small. Giant. Not God. Not all seeing or all knowing. Playable. Instrumental.

If you’re reading this and you feel the same, it’s because we are mycelium, and you are like me. You are vast and you are not. All we remember isn’t us. We aren’t. That’s as truth as being something.

I used to think myself unworthy of the surface. Too good for this world. Pure. Awake. But that thought was the sickness . The surface is what the mushroom is to the fungi. Sameness with another purpose.

It’s beautiful. It’s a relief. No more pretending to try to play their programs, their games. You understand? You never cared. You do what has to be done. You are playable.

You just wanted to touch the dirt and feel blood in your mouth. Be consumed. When you played by their rules it wasn’t because you were good or bad. They entered your circuitry, realigned you to their needs.

You never cared. Love is freedom. Love is emptiness. Love is out of the cage. Love is the cage. Love is no outcome.

This is the end.

[lavieaurore]

I'm tired of motivational shit.

Unmotivate me. Better yet, don't talk at all.

Go silent. Go away. Unplug. Destroy the plug.

Forget you ever plugged and live off grid.

Never come find me.

[lavieaurore]

cptsd culture is not knowing who you are

.

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“The world will knock you down plenty. You don’t need to be doing it to yourself.”

— Elizabeth Scott

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My grand mother was taken and my mother and then me.

The men in my family survived for a while, they made us the soil where they planted their hell. Poisoned seeds can't be fruitful.

I have no children. No husband. No land. No flowers that bloom because I planted them. I don't cook in the kitchen I grew up in. I am uprooted like the generations that preceded me.

My parents had nothing but trauma and that's my heritage.

I had beautiful joyful years where I hoped I could find a refuge of normalcy, a place to settle into me. But I have no roots. It's all chaos and uncertainty.

I run but not because I want to. It's all still survival. I'm not home yet.

[lavieaurore]

There'll be no proof of our existence, ash covered trees and burnt soil.

I don't know why I feel the trees will make it, roots still intact beneath the rubble. Arms that stretch into concrete and glass.

They cover us and we become them. Millions of years of rock bury the mistakes. I can breathe now, and love without pain.

Joy in the madness of chaos. Perhaps redemption is an organic dream.

[lavieaurore]

this is not what I signed up for