THE CLOSET MYSTIC

sometimes it feels like my life exists in cycles of building dams against the waters and then being inundated and flooded by them, temporarily taken and washed away, for the waters to be resorbed by the Earth, balance to return to the land, to build yet another dam to be taken again once the concretes fail.

reading this book Turtles All the Way Down — filling me with compassion and understanding that I wish was always there. the screaming winds of internal hurricanes that sometimes never cease inside the minds of the externally silent… sometimes those with their mouths sealed are quiet only because they cannot pick what to say, to begin to truly speak is to risk a near-infinite spiral of a monologue, because that is the state of their mind that will not abate.

the thought process is eerily similar. the natural disposition of Aza’s mind reminds me of significant people from my past. 

her OCD seems centered around a form of grief involving what seems to me to be a complete and utter loss of control — i.e., the sudden death of her beloved father. 

I have this hunch that her OCD is almost centered around an attempt at control. she continually describes her mind and her thoughts as being something she witnesses, completely and utterly out of her control, unable to choose her thoughts, instead at the mercy of their ever-shifting and brutal winds. 

I think her childhood and her experience of her own mind is centered around a complete and utter loss of control. I don’t really believe this, but it’s almost like her mind is behaving in ways that cannot be controlled because of the sudden severity of the trauma — someone so near and dear ripped away from her suddenly without her having so much as a say in the matter. Her mind fearfully understands life as something that cannot be controlled, and it’s almost like her mental scape behaves in a way that reflects that. the inner reflecting her experience of the outer.

It gives me compassion for people who are suffering in this way, particularly if their childhood involved a loss of control, particularly in relation to a parent.

The book also gave me compassion for myself, in that I recognized the anxiously-circular nature of the thought patterns. They felt all too familiar.

I just want to have more compassion for all beings. I have a hunch that the evils of all beings are easily explained by their own suffering, by ignorance… it’s so easy to look underneath the surface and find the reason for why someone is behaving in any particular way. Too, too easy. I almost feel like intelligence lends into compassion, in this way, for to see the truth of things, and the hidden reality that a perceptive eye/mind/heart can pick up on, is to necessarily come to forgiveness and compassion for those who are hurting. Hurt people really do hurt people, and I’ll always remember that, and try my very hardest to love and forgive accordingly.

amazing little quotation from Turtles All the Way Down by John Green, currently reading:

“Dr. Singh once told me that if you have a perfectly tuned guitar and a perfectly tuned violin in the same room, and you pluck the D string of the guitar, then all the way across the room, the D string on the violin will also vibrate. I could always feel my mother’s vibrating strings.”

I feel this way with all of the people I love

the only shape that actually exists is the sphere

every other shape is an illusion consisting of particular arrangements of smaller spheres

reality is borderless 

I like being alive.

such a wonderful contradiction

to contemplate the truth underlying fiction 

for no matter the skin

a heart is dressed in

within those veins

the lifeblood’s the same.

…

I’ve once heard

“politicians use the truth to tell lies,

while artists use lies 

to tell the truth.”

…

a life without art is not a life at all

art 

is the story of ourselves

with ourselves placed 

as far as can be.

…

self-loss

and self-discovery 

becoming one and the same.

Pistachios are just the bees knees

I actually need to make it clear that the poem I posted about being exiled from the family for being queer is more than a little dramatic, lol

My immediate nuclear family has always supported me. My father’s actually faced judgment from family members — my extended relatives — and stuck to his guns defending me, saying I’m his son and he loves me.

My mother’s silly sometimes, but no matter what miscalculated thing she blurts, she has my back no matter fucking what.

My siblings and my future sister-in-law support me unconditionally.

I really do have all the love I need lol

what an act of foolishness to ever take anything personally.

to be wounded by another person’s wound

willingly

we only see one domino fall

the one just before us

and not the unimaginable sequence

that precedes.

but wow 

the fire

the magic

of us kissing and dancing 

was a sorcerer’s brazier.

and the oxygen

that the flame demanded

left me breathless.

the euphoria of that night,

however,

met grim ponderings,

for I’d fall from the Garden 

without a doubt —

at my heart’s mercy,

her decision final —

exiled,

cast away from the Father,

from Eden,

if a man stole my passions.

but the fruit’s only forbidden

because of my position 

on the family tree.

it would hurt her 

way more

than it would hurt me.

it gives me comfort

to know

that I could make myself cold 

and walk away 

from a village I left burning,

delightfully set ablaze.

if that’s how I need 

to meet its warmth

then so be it.

I’d walk away

without a doubt,

and she’d be left weak

obsessing

and made to come around,

for I know her.

therefore,

I do not worry.

but…

you bought me flowers.

you kissed my forehead…

you…

made me feel so safe.

and that kiss

made me feel things

that shocked me, still yet.

every time I’m with a man,

the reality smacks me

with the force

of the bliss

that surprises me

each and every time.

this…

is real.

it made me feel…

so happy.

why must all things have a cost?

I’d pay it any day —

I wish I didn’t have to —

but you better fucking believe I would.

I knew since I was 16

the first time

the Eveningstar of my heart

shined and flickered

for a man,

heralding a strange night’s beginning,

that I’d gladly fight the world for love.

…

as Janis sang,

“freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose“

mental twilight 

lunar eyesight

reflection of a reflection 

distilled in pond water

shedding and dying 

black tears mixing

with the whitest mirror

the Moon’s visage.