THE CLOSET MYSTIC

Super duper amateur but I was so excited I got part of it LOL

slightly cleaner:

I’ve decided to quit being a dumbass cold turkey. Wish me luck.

“you attract what you fear”

AHHHHHHH BIG TITTY GOTH GIRLS AAAAAHHHHHHHHH !!!!!!!!!!

A life without joy

is a life of entitlement.

I see purity

in those who give thanks

for the most basic of things.

are we so entitled,

so spoiled,

that we awake with anything other than the most humble and deep of gratitude 

that we have a heartbeat?

have we forgotten how precious any of this is.

Each one of your senses

is capable of delivering divinity.

the mystic wonder 

of a leaf on a tree 

should be enough 

to send me into ecstasy.

I thank the divine, the source, whatever it is, whomever,

for allowing me to simply be alive on this planet.

how could I have ever taken any of this for granted?

I hoot and I holler

For having food in my belly!

I squeal in delight

that I have friends

who check in now and then

to make sure I’m alright.

a dad who says I love you —

I must be the luckiest man alive.

A mother who would give her life for me–

what did I do to deserve this?

books!

food!

grass!

sunshine.

music.

this is paradise. why do we place heaven as a reward for after this life when it’s so clearly here for the taking?

I have everything I need —

perhaps my highest prayer

is not for something elsewhere,

but to always remember what’s right in front of me.

the grass is green everywhere,

here, there, past, present, future.

Cold and hard reality…

is it so cold and hard after all?

consider it as ice,

then consider the alchemical flame,

the burning of the spirit,

as its melting.

through the will

she becomes more pliable —

but also know

that the power of magic 

is summoning heat into the breath

that with one mighty gust of the spoken word

she might respond in reflectivity.

EMOTION,

turns glacier into ocean.

FEELING 

turned into will,

leads to the unveiling,

of the magical world.

REJOICE!

REJOICE,

my creatives.

Rejoice, my brothers and sisters who prefer imagination to reality —

the line between the two is not so clear, after all.

Magic is real,

And I pray that the next hallowed grove you sit in

whispers this very same secret to you.

can we play a game of telephone,

can we tell the others?

I am,

And I am not,

Do I exist?

I must have forgot.

Creator and created —

Painter,

The painted.

Whispering winds

Speaking of fate

Wrestling serpents

In figure 8s

Mercury’s staff 

Commanding time 

Vibrating strings

Snakes intertwined

Past and present 

Future, 

and the now

Happening at once:

You might be wondering..

How?

Consider a caduceus:

Threefold loops.

and at each point,

where they meet,

is somewhere in time…

ain’t that neat?

but is it not

at each knot

the same two snakes

on the very same rod?

…

me reciting this poem!

creativity 

is to sit by the waters of the unconscious,

to meditatively go fishing.

what will you catch?

what will you bring back 

for the rest of us?

oh,

and do you remember that parable in which the Christ fed thousands,

with but a few fish?

this is what creativity is.

no, 

man shall not live by bread alone —

we might all be sustained in plenty

feasting upon the very same 

creative flesh.

this world needs more fishermen.

we are starving,

but we may be fed

if only a few brave souls

would sit and wait patiently —

for the ocean always provides.

…

The personal unconscious is the very definition of the ocean contained within a drop, and the collective unconscious is the very definition of the ocean created by us all as droplets–

all in the one, one in the all. 

artists are those who speak the voice of the collective, 

to dive inward and retrieve what is common to all of humanity. 

how brave it is

how glorious

for each time their heart is spoken

the choir of the universe sings through their solo.

taking a stab at some fiction. the inspiration was in wanting to write erotica, particularly from the female perspective. but just wanted to express that i am well aware that my first attempts won’t be amazing, and that that is okay. i think accepting that the work doesn’t have to be phenomenal and simply doing it anyway is how to break through writer’s block. so, yeah: i’ve accepted that this work, and works following it, may not be amazing! however, i do believe that one of the greatest ways to get good at something, that is tried and true — perhaps one of the only real ways — is to do it poorly a whole bunch of times until it gets better. of course, there are other things one can do, such as receive constructive criticism, read other people’s writings, etc etc etc — but even so, the most critical step is repetition to make use of what others can show you. 

so, without further ado, a burst of inspiration:

I awoke to an arm wrapped around my waist. One of the greatest things about being in a loving relationship, to me, is these moments: every morning, I get to experience the joy of remembering the love I have.

I truly love this man. I began rubbing my feet against his — anything to just feel the sensation of him. I curled my fingers around his, making him hold me more tightly. 

I smiled to myself. No, our life was not perfect, nor was our relationship: we’ve met our fair share of difficulties. However, moments like these make everything else melt away. Life’s simplest pleasures are its most sublime. What more do we need other than this? It’s so peculiar how such heights of bliss could be known simply through two naked bodies. Two humans in their rawest of states, as one.

No, I don’t need anything else other than this. Our bond was special in that our hearts were made bare first before our bodies —  yes, we had so much time to get to know each other, having grown up together. I knew him more than anyone else — he knew me more than anyone else. 

His name is Jack. Curly red hair, freckles, and the cutest of noses made up the face of this man who I’d known as long as I could remember. Our love was a great oak — one acorn having sprouted at the very beginning of our lives. It took its time to grow, rooting deep into our souls. The years we’ve known each other were spent letting it grow and reach skyward. 

Yes, this skinny, dorky, kind, ridiculous ginger was mine. 

Our naked bodies were pressed against each other, him behind me. I began to wiggle around a little bit, pressing my ass into him. The strangest of sensations I’ve experienced with someone I love is that no matter how physically close you get, somehow, there’s still yet always the desire to get even closer. 

I saw sex as one way to satisfy this itch. Yes, we were both obviously extremely horny, and wanted to fuck each other like rabbits every chance we got — no one knew the ways such a cute, unassuming guy acted behind closed doors — but there was an emotional longing that was satiated by our sex, an ocean of love between us. 

Yes, every time I let him in me, my heart opened to him ever more. I was in tune with him on the deepest of levels. 

I felt him begin to stir. I felt his hand begin squeezing mine. I grinned stupidly, and immediately turned around to face him out of excitement. 

I cupped his cheek into my hand. I’d never get tired of looking at him. His thick eyebrows jumped up in amusement as he looked at me. He smirked. I watched the sleep leave his eyes in a moment as the passion we shared ignited, at the drop of a hat. 

“Hello,” reverberated his deep voice, the night’s sleep adding a pleasant, deep, growly drawl made a heat radiate in my belly. Fuck. 

“Hey there, shithead.” I stuck out my tongue and playfully licked his nose. “How did you sleep?”

“Wonderfully. Wanna hear about my dream?”

“Duh.” I rested my head on his chest and wrapped my arms around him. My big, bony teddy bear.

“I dreamt of you. We were back in middle school, out on the playground. You were over swinging on the swing set with Clare. I remember you laughing, the way your wind was tossed over your face, blowing wildly in the wind. I just stood like an idiot, admiring you. I felt like I was falling in love with you all over again.”

Ugh. I can’t with this man. Such a sappy romantic. I felt myself melting into him — he made me feel so safe. 

I also loved fucking with him relentlessly. Publicly, I was the stronger personality of the two, coming off as the dominant personality in the relationship. However, behind closed doors, our roles switched: he, my protector — I, warm, soft, and small. 

He continued. “I was nervous, but I felt this magnetic pull towards you. I simply had to approach you — so I did. I approached the side of the swing set, and called out to you. You turned to me, and my stomach did backflips.”

He stopped.

“Then what?” I demanded.

“Then you flipped me off.”

I snorted, shooting my face towards him. “You fucking deserved it! You little creep.”

He cackled. That man had a strange, strange laugh, but every time I heard it, I fell in love with him just a little bit more. 

Suddenly, something fell over him. He did this thing every now and then — from lighthearted and flippant, to dark and serious in seconds. He pecked me on the lips. “Is it weird that it only made me want you more?”

I felt his hand reach between my legs. He didn’t move it or anything — he just cupped it there over me. I felt the warmth of his hand radiating, and I felt a familiar heat in my lower stomach.

He was getting me turned on, but that didn’t mean I wanted to stop chiding him. “Kinda weird that you’re getting turned on right now after talking about a dream of us as children, but okay.”

He smirked, but I know he saw beneath me poking fun. I felt my gaze soften, but his intensified. 

The next thing I knew, I was turned over on my back, and he was showering me in kisses. His lips pressed against mine, then he pecked my ear, then my cheek, then my neck, then my arms, then my fingers, where he took one into his mouth — 

I don’t know what it is about that specific thing but it always drove me fucking crazy. I moaned immediately, head turning back. Ugh, the conflict of when I get turned on like this: the instinct is for my eyes to shut and for my head to cock back in pleasure, but I also hate missing the show. His eye contact was always so intense, and so goddamn sexy. 

I stopped him, remembering that I needed to make it to class. 

“Babe. The time. Class. What time is it?”

“I don’t give a fuck” he growled.

Suddenly, his face was between my legs, his tongue taking long strokes, as if he was tasting me more for his sake than my pleasure. 

My hand clasped over my mouth. I loved how much he loved going down on me. He always, always told me how it was his absolute favorite thing to do. He could be down there for hours, he’d say. He made me feel like a goddess, like the sexiest woman on this planet. There was something healing about the way he’d eat me out — the fact that he derived so much pleasure from simply worshipping me made me feel powerful. It made me feel deserving.

Class. We were both in university, both had the same first lecture. I reached for my phone. I saw the time and realized I had to be getting ready in only a few minutes to make it to class on time. 

Luckily, this man knew exactly what made me tick. He mastered me — he could take his time and make my pleasure last hours, or he could make me explode in a minute. 

“Baby —“ I gasped. “You have two minutes.”

“Mhm.” 

He knew what to do to make me cum as fast as possible. 

Still licking me, he gathered wetness on his fingers, then brought them down to my asshole.

I hate to admit how much I love his fingers back there. I do not know what it does or why it works but his fingers in there can make me cum in 30 seconds.

He rubbed my hole in circles. A bolt of electric lust shot up my spine, and my legs opened up to him more and more. I simply could never open my legs up to him enough. 

This was it, this was my undoing. I was officially a mess before him. 

I put my hands in his stupid, red, curly fucking hair and felt him tease my opening even more as his tongue moved in circles around my clit. Waves of pleasure radiated through me.

As one of his fingers began slowly slipping in my ass, he slipped two fingers from his other hand simultaneously into my cunt, all the while relentlessly making love to my clit with his tongue. I do not understand how this man can multi-task so beautifully.

I felt him gently moving around one finger in my butt, while his other two fingers curled upwards inside me.

I belong to this man. I am his, he is mine. 

And I needed his cock in me instead of his fingers. 

Now. 

“Baby. Baby.”

I didn’t have to say anything else. He simply looked up at me, and then he knew. 

He crawled up, pinned my arms against the bed firmly, then kissed me gently — he always knew how to make it clear that he was in charge, but still express such tender affections all the same. 

He looked me in the eye, and, without breaking eye contact, slowly slipped himself he inside me. Then, once he was up to the hilt, he began pounding me. He was fucking me for him, with reckless abandon. I loved it when he used me like this — I felt like a goddess giving myself to him, letting him express his wildness, unable to contain his passions. He went, and went, and went, I along for the ride. 

Suddenly, he paused, and looked me dead in the eye. He said nothing for a moment. Something infused his eyes with emotion.

“I love you.”

Then he reached around with one hand, his long arms able to make it to my asshole, and then he slipped a finger in. His other hand went to my clit, rubbing in circles, while he fucked me.

And then we melted into one, and I lost myself ever more.

“I… love… you…” I muttered between thrusts, ecstasy and euphoria flooding throughout every cell of my being. 

I heard him moaning and groaning, his pleasure like velvet vibrating out of him — 

and that — 

that did it. 

I once heard falling asleep described as happening slowly, and then all at once — that was how I came. I wouldn’t have been able to announce that I was cumming, nor have been able to give him a warning — his moan was like the tugging of a lace of ribbon, and then I came completely undone underneath him in a second.

My orgasm took me. I spasmed while he relentlessly continued, massaging the inside of my ass, still rubbing on my clit, his cock still pumping inside of me. He moaned, moaned so beautifully, inside of my ear — 

And then he, somehow, intensified even more, his thrusts becoming faster, harder:

“I’m fucking cumming.”

He moaned loudly, without shame. He filled me while I spasmed over him still, and I felt us throbbing together. We vocalized our pleasures together, loudly, and all was bliss. For this man, my best friend, my partner in life, this sex god, he was everything to me. I didn’t understand how it was possible to be so damn attracted to someone, to need someone on such a core and base level, yet to know the most sublime and beautiful and soft and subtle of loves at the same time — 

He filled me with spurt after spurt of him, letting out a manly, beautiful moan, giving himself to me as I gave myself to him — 

As his orgasm ended, mine was subsiding, waves of pleasure still radiating and tingling throughout my entire body — 

then he collapsed sweatily onto my chest, and I held him. I stroked his hair. My boy, my man, my everything. 

…

We were late. 

Worth it. 

also, i had a moment in class yesterday that was a little scary

i was like, sitting there… and i’m trying to remember what the conversation material was. i think we were talking about the constructing of mental narratives in our sense of self? like, we narrate our own life and gain a sense of self through that; we keep record of what our own story is, and we live it.

and i think, while hearing that, my insignificance began to dawn on me. and, usually, when i talk about “my own insignificance,” it isn’t me literally reflecting on how small i am, it’s more about reflecting on how grand something else is, like admiring the majesty of the cosmos. it’s an expansive feeling, full of wonder and awe.

but this feeling of my own insignificance was different; it wasn’t expansive, it wasn’t full of wonder and awe. it was actually frightening, because i began to realize how indifferent the universe and world is to me. i began to realize just how fucking big everything in my own life feels is a product of the desire to feel important, to feel like life has some sort of meaning. but… i began to realize that the story i’ve constructed for myself exists entirely within my own head, it has little to no objective existence outside of myself, no one cares, the universe does not care. basically, i made everything up. LOL.

i feel like this is a really important experience to have, though. it’s humbling, and not in a romanticized way. it’s just, like, real. not pretty nor fun lol. you don’t matter. i’m not important! HAHAHAH OMG I’M NOT IMPORTANT AT ALL. isn’t it crazy? like 45 pages of muck on this blog. i’ve spoken so much, what have i truly said? 45 pages of bitching and moaning, 45 pages of melodrama, 45 pages of imagined turmoil. 45 pages of delusions of self-importance, 45 pages of feeling like i was accomplishing something when i did nothing.

nobody cares! the feeling of my life being important isn’t — gasp — shared by other people. others couldn’t give a fuck about who i say i am other than the tangible results i produce in the world.

i wanna keep talking but who in the fuck CARES? NO ONE

and this is freedom