All you really have to do
Is pull.
And once
Out it comes,
it will be devoured
by the vast nothing that surrounds you
and then effervesce into
just that nothing.
Pull hard.
For just getting a hold on that emptiness
is never absolute.
It often feels like nothing,
as if you were jesting
with your own self
about the monster under your bed.
You see,
emptiness tries to not make a sound.
It's very existence
is like the bacteria
that crawl unseen on your hands.
And yet,
drop a thought,
and you will hear
the intermingled echoes
off a vast void;
till your thought is disfigured beyond recognition
and lost to the soothing lull of
soft echoes.
And the disintegrating matter
will be left perpetuating exactly
that,
which it needs not.
To exist.
Here you are today,
a lot of incoherent buzz
and some regurgitated coherence.
Yet you're not one
to lie comatose
in waves of static.
So pull.
PULL.
Hold on to whatever it is,
we'll figure out what,
later.
Pull.
It will hurt,
it will burn with friction
it will stick under your skin
till it rips.
Let it rip now,
lest it sag later.
Pull.
And you will pull out
what will look your very innards.
Everything you thought was true,
Everything you believed was real,
and the very substance
you are,
unequivocally
wearing your name tag.
And let it go.
Oh it will hurt.
To blow away bits
of you that
you had once carefully accumulated.
The hoarded piles of
collectibles,
unceremoniously buried
in a hence unopened carton,
you left behind when you moved.
Old notebooks,
fluffy bears with a lost eye,
some worn splotchy letters
and the fungi it silently grows
under dust covers.
The dust will sting your eyes
and you will cry,
for days.
Till the salt
has taken all that was
into the purgatory.
And now,
the you,
you know,
is the You,
that will be.
Picture credits: Soft Self Portrait With Fried Bacon - Salvador Dali
As you all know, surrealism interests me greatly, as both an ort form and psycho-philosophical expression movement. Surrealist artists, in all their extreme forays into their unconscious mind truly leave behind memoirs for everyone, in ways unique to the one who percieves.
At the end of another 365 days around the Sun, I continue the tradition of writing a short note to self - to commemorate all that is.
This time around, I commemorate all that is, and burn it into the ashes a phoenix needs to immortalize. A phoenix does not fear the one great truth - death; but in accepting it, is reborn into another life. Here's to knowing truths, and rising out of patterns of fear.
There will always be someone, or something building walls around you, or burning you at the stake, or simply, sadistically intermingling in your life. Here's to knowing that their walls are your trampolines, their burning stakes are your warmth and their sadism is just that - theirs and not yours; and rejoicing in gratitude with those that severely outweigh everything else - in love, support and good intentions.
Here's to discerning beyond the static, pulling out the weeds and starting off with a bare ground again. The mind-blowing part - you can sow anything you want here.
From the subconscious to the conscious - Happy Birthday!!