THE CLOSET MYSTIC

and tonight,

I drank in stardust —

Tiniest sliver of a reborn Luna,

holding hands,

conjoined sweetly

with our Lady Venus —

and how connected did I feel

to generations and generations before!

for as the micro shifts,

ever-transitory,

the celestials remain —

those planets.

to them,

I am a bubble blown

by accident

from the shampoo bottle

of a baby given a bath

my lifespan shorter.

but ah,

what a gift it is

to even bear witness to them!

for those microseconds

just before I pop

and they inhale me back

into their lungs.

and oh,

I wished upon that Eveningstar,

and I know she heard me!

we smiled at each other

my mother loves me

I will dance

with that five-petaled lotus

for the rest of my days ❤️

i cannot handle how amazing this book is i want to scream and die. you ever get a feeling of terror while reading a book knowing that it will eventually be over?

the dynamic we experienced between us and our parents is a blueprint, a script, imprinted on the psyche, prone to be re-enacted in significant relationships — particularly if the dynamic was unhealthy and there are still yet unmet needs to be addressed — if we do not face, alchemize, and heal the inner child-inner parent relationship.

people are always, always talking about the inner child. My opinion, however, is that we have an entire cast list in the great drama of our psyche. Not only do we have an inner child, but we have an inner parent, too. Perhaps an inner father and an inner mother. Perhaps we are the intermediary between all of those forces, and our role is to work intelligently enough with all of them to create harmony. Perhaps this is the role of Mercury/Mind as the psychopomp. Perhaps this is alchemy.

I think true inner child healing is about inner parent healing, for how can we heal the inner child without giving it a healthy parent, the one it so desperately needed?

I think, in inner child healing, it is far more critical to focus on the ideal parent and all that they would have provided for us — then, we embody that for ourselves.

I have literally talked to myself like I would a small child if ever in need of consoling. I have literally spoken to myself like my own mother, like my own father.

We are both our own parent and the child. We must simultaneously feel, in its entirety, the vulnerability of the youth that never quite leaves our gut, who exists with us forever on some deep, instinctual level, AND be the voice of the parent we need.

Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only change form; so, if we deny the need of the inner child, ignore it, or repress it, it will merely acquire what it needs in some other covert behavior. This is the roots of addiction. Overeaters, sex addicts, substance abusers — inside of all of these people is a child who wasn’t adequately loved. The chosen vice will be gripped as intensely as the need remains unmet.

In a relationship where you have projected your father or mother image onto your partner, all of the associated feelings of helplessness a child feels at the hand of the parent, the provider, the authority, and all of its vulnerable need, will come up as well.

basically, if you’ve projected the image of a parent onto another, that necessarily requires someone to be the child — you.

where’s the practical work in this dilemma?

recognizing that one cannot be without need.

our emergence into adulthood is usually characterized by self-sufficiency. for those of us who never had our inner child needs adequately met, this often involves a white-knuckling, a tight barricade around the feeling self. when it comes to areas of life that demand the feeling self to come forth, however, particularly in our relations with other people, our behavior will tell no lies, regardless of our words. maybe we will be unavailable. or, maybe all that we held in for so long will come out in a flurry of unmet need and emotional chaos. we will either keep them at arms length, for we learned to not trust the primary caretaker, and to never let ourselves be dependent and vulnerable because we were let down by those whose responsibility was to take care of us in childhood; OR, we will latch on, like a starved baby to the bottle, and cry when it is being taken away.

often, in relationship, opposites attract, and people on either end of this spectrum will come into relationship with the other, each holding something for the other to integrate. the anxiously attached person must integrate the self-sufficiency of the avoidant; the avoidant must integrate the necessary vulnerability of the anxiously attached.

the ultimate truth, however, is this:

we will never be without dependence, we will never be without need. never. never ever can you ever be completely and entirely self-sufficient. it does not matter how strong, independent, or solitary by nature you are — we need true, honest, authentic, vulnerable human connection like we need air. you will run into significant issues if you are without these things, like being deficient in a critical nutrient.

so, then — what is adulthood?

adulthood is about learning how to properly, adequately, and FULLY assess our actual needs for what they truly are, free of illusions, free of convincing ourselves about what it is we THINK we need, but rather honestly facing what it is that we ACTUALLY need, and learning about ways to provide those needs for ourselves.

We are independent about our dependence in this sense. This means if you recognize that an actual core need of yours is cuddles, you recognize it, face it — and any fears of vulnerability that could be associated — communicate it to a partner, a friend, get a pet, etc.

There is still an aspect of dependence in the sense that we need another to make the equation work; however, it is independent in the sense that we recognize a need, do not ignore it, and communicate it and/or actualize it like an adult.

An important note is that sometimes we will mask deeper needs with more surface-level substitutes. One of the most primary examples that I will likely come to again and again is sex. Meaningless sex and hook-ups, to me, almost always mask a deeper longing for actual connection, closeness, warmth, and *gasp* love.

Instead of going deeper into the more raw feelings of our yearning for those things, and creating actual emotional intimacy and vulnerability, we may take the easy way out and temporarily numb the longing with a hook up.

In my eyes, this is why I have made a commitment to give up meaningless sex. I am not perfect, but this is merely a matter of recognizing my truer, deeper need for genuine connection that purely bodily sex cannot meet. I feel more full and truly happy after cuddling with a friend than I would and have after a hook up.

One feeds the heart; one temporarily pacifies the body.

Screaming feed me here
Fill me up again
Temporarily pacifying

Feed me here
Fill me up again
Temporarily pacifying

this isn’t a poem or an original or anything i’m just screaming right now at this book i’m reading it’s killing me. what the fuck. i can’t. i cannot. there is no ability to can at this very moment.

the book is Red, White, & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston. there’s correspondence over email between the two lovers of the story, Alex and Henry. they live in different countries. not gonna get into the finer details but what they’ll do, at the end of every one of their emails, is add a historical excerpt of some letter between gay lovers through history.

this one absolutely killed me (but not before the actual email from Henry to Alex killed me more, wow what is love this redemptive mystifying purifying beautiful force oh my heavens):

from Michelangelo to Tommaso Cavalieri, 1533:

“I know well that, at this hour, I could as easily forget your name as the food by which I live; nay, it were easier to forget the food, which only nourishes my body miserably, than your name, which nourishes both body and soul, filling the one and the other with such sweetness that neither weariness nor fear of death is felt by me while memory preserves you to my mind. Think, if the eyes could also enjoy their portion, in what condition I should find myself.“

…

…

…

ok i needed to come back to this and add. i NEED to share the email that Henry wrote to Alex. basically, Henry is the prince of England, Alex is the First Son of the United States. Henry is explaining how, with the death of his father, most of the memories of his childhood are tainted with grief due to his father’s absence. there is a void in all of them.

so he goes on to explain how he compartmentalized… well, basically his entire adolescence. he stuffs them into rooms — the actual rooms he uses are ones in his royal palace. but then he describes how he couldn’t fit Alex and his love and adoration for him into any of them.

i think i need to use photos instead of typing it in, there’s a decent amount:

had me weeping. absolutely beautiful.

Too many dimensions to my being.

What the fuck am I?

An entirely new human each and every day .

Through all these differences, I scan with a critical eye,

magnifying, poring over these jumps.

what remains the same?

Plutonium. 

Yet another dimension to my being,

This is the part of myself that I’ve oft fought…

this part of myself without illusion.

sees emptiness in all things

solitary.

preferring aloneness to frivol 

only wanting what is real.

that part of myself that has already died.

antisocial by nature 

without trust

but

once that heart opens

it loves for lifetimes

so prone to crushing despair

more alone at a party

then in solitude with the sea

oh, that darkness

why do I find truth there?

like I can end the masquerade 

of gaiety 

when will I find the person

whose hand will clasp mine in those depths

the heart of the other

being the only light we need.

I need aloneness

for I’ve met me more than anyone else has met me.

I only want what is meaningful.

I only want what is with depth.

If I can find that truth

with another soul,

then fine — 

then lovely — 

but I’d sooner trade company 

than realness.

grant me those with substance. 

grant me those who stick around when the going gets tough.

grant me those unafraid of those depths.

grant me those unafraid of the dark. 

grant me the brave,

with light of soul,

spirit,

and heart,

so grand,

that they can play with childlike glee

in the abominable depths of the Earth

those who can love the monsters residing therein.

I want love with roots

that extend into Hell,

because I know that,

only then,

can its branches reach the heavens. 

All actions 

have an equal and opposite reaction

therefore,

the heights your love is capable of,

is determined only by the depths it can brave. 

…

I walk through the halls of my being,

checking the rooms of this dim corridor.

I open a door I did not know was there

further along the ecliptic

of my consciousness

than I knew I could venture.

an icy chill assaults my senses immediately

why are there winds here?

I see a boy

huddled in the corner.

dark hair

pale skin

head between his knees.

I gasp,

catching his attention.

he looks up instantly

tears streaming down

pooling above his upper lip

his lips…

why are they blue?

the miasma of this room

his despair is concentrated

to a magnitude

I knew not possible

he says nothing but it is deafening

and yet in his eyes

what is it I see?

…

a heat in them

amidst this hidden arctic

he says nothing but still

the message is deafening

and I intuitively understand

that his spirit possesses a heat

a will

a courage

that even this cold

phases him not

there is power here

there is…

somehow

immense

intense

agonizing

beautiful love.

…

I sit next to him.

I take his hand.

He is stunned,

but shortly after,

looks at me with a smile.

he rests his head on my shoulder

and we both know

we are going to be okay.

we are going to be okay

no matter how dark it gets

no matter how cold

here,

we can not just survive

we can thrive

…

I look and see

an aura encasing him

taking on a pale blue glow.

I watch

stunned,

mystified,

as particle after particle

photon after photon

departs

from what was formerly

his vessel.

they dress themselves

around me,

becoming golden

when they touch me

I lay back,

my eyes shut,

and some strange

enlightened

melancholic

powerful

explosive

still and certain,

composed,

intensity

fills my cup to the brim.

I let out a sigh,

look to my side,

and he is gone.

Luna,

Luna,

Luna,

Is it you, 

was it you all along? 

They’ve spoken so heavily about that guardian Spirit, 

The soul sourcing from one primary fount,

Was it you all along? 

Oh, Luna,

could it be?

Luna, Luna, Luna, 

How can I explain?

How can it be? 

How is it that you, you, you, 

wipe away tears

I did not even know 

were staining my face?

How can it be

That the sensation

For months on end

Disperses with one glance? How?

I did not know I was holding my breath

Until you granted me a sigh of peace, 

of relief. 

Could it be you? 

Those mystics,

Those modern magi, 

They speak so heavily

Of that One spirit

To whom each human has an invisible cord.

I think it is you. 

Could it be you,

Luna,

My Daimon? 

How can it be, it defies logic, it defies understanding,

How?

How do you do it? 

So readily,

So easily,

Effortlessly,

Wipe away all ills

Within minutes?

I truly do not understand it

But you know what?

I have come to recognize that as part of your majesty

For your power, your reign, 

Extends into all, 

the invisible your domain.

This is why you are feared,

For we fear that which we cannot control.

That which we do not understand.

No, Mother,

Instead of fearing the dark,

I step in readily,

Knowing that you are there to embrace me,

For you grant me senses 

Far superior to eyesight — 

I need not my eyes to see.

No, I simply do not understand it, but I am done trying to. 

No, I do not understand 

how all of my efforts 

over months 

to heal,

to feel better,

to feel okay,

are made laughable 

By simply willingly, openly connecting with you,

The Great Mother,

for minutes. 

I do not understand it, nor will I try to. 

You remind me the limitation of the verbal. 

That Mind

It is Air. 

Words are birds dancing along the surface of the sea

But those depths — 

Only 5% explored by mankind. 

This knowledge — 

This is where all men must kneel and bow to the feminine,

To the unknown,

To the unconscious.

She will always be greater than us. 

Always. 

Oh, I genuinely have gooseflesh.

How? How did you do it? 

How did moonstone in hand,

A crescent on my neck,

Sat by the sea,

Take it all away,

And then replenish me beyond what I knew was possible?

I can’t understand it — 

Happy again. 

How? How? How do you do it? 

This is God. I cannot explain it.

This is where divinity steps in. 

When a force so much greater than your own understanding, one that cannot be put into word, 

Takes hold, humbles you, lovingly. 

Humbled am I by your grace, by your power. 

No, when I think about being humbled,

I usually think about being smacked down — 

No, you humbled me through gentle graces,

Through sweetness,

Through lifting me up and showing me your expanses. 

Oh, my heart is healing, and I cannot thank you enough for it. 

Can we just be fucking real?

Enough.

Can we just be fucking real?

Enough. 

I am done, I am done. 

I am going to be fucking real. I’ve always been good at that. 

I need not wear a mask. 

Enough. 

I need not wear a strong face. No. 

My strong face

has always been on my sleeve,

For that is where my heart is worn. 

No image. I care not about how I appear. 

Can we just be fucking real? 

Closer do I grow to a more appropriate model of masculinity.

And I think, if masculinity is bravery, then its opposing force thus requires fear, the daunting — 

Masculinity is about facing fear. Looking it dead in the eye, unwavering. 

A staring contest with a basilisk — 

And all that dies is one’s cowardice. 

I am done being afraid. 

Show me my fears, for my compass is recalibrating. 

True north now points towards all that terrifies me. 

There do I march, evermore. 

This is who I am, this is who I always was. 

Let me stare fear in the eye. 

Such is the mastery of the self, that final Guardian of the Threshold. 

I think nihilists who let their worldview turn into a depressive apathy simply aren’t very creative.

I’d imagine that the sequence isn’t necessarily nihilism > depressive apathy, in most cases; rather, there’s likely an emotional trauma that is still yet unresolved, and the worldview reflects an existing emotional state of disempowerment and the values of one’s heart not being realized.

I’d imagine that most nihilists had their belief in goodness, for one reason or another, crushed. Instead of fighting to preserve that goodness by embodying it against the odds that surround them, I’d imagine that — in an attitude I’d characterize as cowardice — they forfeited their faith in goodness, in an awfully-binary model of the universe.

We so prefer black and white outlooks. They’re easier. It’s difficult to hold two things as true at the same time. I’d imagine that such folks, who witnessed some lack of goodness around them, had the pendulum of their outlook swing from an all-too-good and rosy lens on life, to a complete tossing of faith in goodness, trading a deep, pure optimism, for a deep-seated, crushing pessimism.

We must be able to hold two things as true at once. Good and evil both exist. If we see wrongness around us, we must get our fire going and activate our ability to be the hero and protagonist of our own life, championing what we see to be rightness.

“The purpose of this life is to live a life of purpose… life without a cause is life without effect.”

This is how love wins. We must not let the heaviness of the world burden us; rather, we must fight to champion goodness.

How did I get here from nihilism?

I see most nihilists as people who equated God, and a meaningful life, with some higher goodness. They were crushed at some point by life not being perfect absolutely all the time. They lost sight of goodness first before losing sight of God. One rainy day that brought them indoors, never to go outside for the next sunny day again.

Nihilists often cite dry rationalism as the segue into their belief system. However, I can’t help but feel like there is an emotional wound that leads to the belief system being developed.

I believe our emotional selves provide the foundation for the belief systems our intellect builds. But it is the emotional self FIRST that determines where the intellect builds up to.

…

(This wasn’t even where I was going to take this, idk where all that came from. The first line — about nihilists with depressive apathy not being very creative — was from the thought that nihilism can be liberating if we, for example, look at life like a video game. Have your fun! That isn’t an encouragement to hedonism, as some may think — some video games that involve discipline and farming over time are actually super fun, just to see how far you can get for the intrinsic satisfaction therein.)