THE CLOSET MYSTIC

An ancient manuscript contained in my heart

Long forgotten

Calls out for attention

Do I give it?

What might it contain?

Some sacred truth

To conquer the profane?

On its cover is a seal with a symbol

Familiar

Hermes Thrice Greatest’s caduceus

I can feel his eyes

On the back of my neck

…

I am a goddess with a garden abundant

Come eat of my fruit

For I grew it for you

The soil is my heart

Its produce called kindness

And I’ve worked the Earth well

Ensuring sustainability

And that I may eat too

my desire to immerse myself in the arts isn’t even a desire for the art

it is a desire for the subtle, that which the art is a receptacle for

it isn’t a desire to immerse myself in art but a desire to immerse myself in feeling. the art is a stepping stone, a key, a doorway to the realm of the subtle that I long for.

art is a cruise liner to allow us to traverse seas of feelings and emotion.

art, to me, is the reclamation of the human spirit. we shape the outer world into what suits our own souls, rather than shaping ourselves to suit what the outer world demands of us. art is the greatest act of the sovereignty of the human spirit.

it is as if we are constantly faced with the problem of the singularity: that point in which the created outsmarts the creator. this world was made to be shaped by our hearts! instead, too often have we allowed ourselves to contort ourselves to its whims, to be subjugated.

the true spirit and soul of every man and woman is the King and Queen of these realms, yet instead we have permitted ourselves to be made less than, dishonoring the grandeur of that which exists within.

do you not understand those divine sparks that exist within you were made to be poured forth? and yet we fear. we fear. we fear, why? why do we fear, why do we feel as if we need permission to shine?

this should make you angry. why has anger become a taboo? fuck that. purify your anger that it become a flame of justice and truth. champion justice, champion truth. champion an ideal, every hero needs a sword. every dragon secretly craves its own demise.

rise up and claim the beautiful sovereignty of your own spirit. the princess held hostage by the dragon represents the ideal, the values of our own hearts, and we must rise up as the heroes who fight gloriously to rescue beauty, true beauty of what is good, right, and true.

rise up you beautiful bastards and live a life worth living ❤

creativity is the act of making the outside reflect the inside

to shine what’s within forth, to pour it forward, to allow the outer realm to receive it and reflect it back. to put our own personal stamp on the external world. every life must do this in some regard to reach any sense of fulfillment. the secret of fulfillment is this:

it is not ourselves that we are seeking to fill. we are not seeking to fill our inner selves with something in order to feel fulfilled.

instead, the true secret to fulfillment is in filling the outer world with ourselves. the mistake is in thinking we must absorb something to fill what’s within. no — we must pour forth what is already in us outward, filling the outer realm with our light.

this is the satisfaction of a life well-lived.

…

similarly, it is not always love we seek, nor necessarily the experience of receiving it, but a place for us to place our love, a heart for us to shine it into and see its fruits reflected back. the experience of giving, of nurturing, and of doing the loving can often time be more healing than receiving nurturing and love.

Your love was a seductive miasma,

Oscillating regularly from siren to banshee.

Was it my heart’s destiny or condemnation?

A world flipped upside down can make a valley look like a mountain peak…

Poisons oft feel like medicine in the right dose.

those endorphins released in cell death,

that hypnotizing light at the tunnel’s end,

they can make your finality

look like birth.

but, awake!

awake!

…

now,

A calmness and serenity boundless

Courses through my being,

Every neuron, cell, axon, and synapse,

Electrified in an oracular renaissance.

an eye turned inward,

will create a lighthouse.

come, all lost at sea.

the prodigal son returns home —

welcomed into open arms am I!

By the eternal,

By the maternal —

My lunar epithet,

reclaimed.

make me once again

pure and demure

for this is the greatest story

of rags to riches

–

born again

will I become virgin

from having been everyone’s

to my own only

–

I belong to the celestial

though I’ve sold myself

in an act so absurd

I’ll laugh till I cry

then cry till I laugh

in its recollection

–

an oxymoron

to assign a price to the priceless

I sold myself, I sold myself

I sold myself

why?

–

make me pure and virgin

if I could take it all back

I would

–

Goddess, teach me

how to honor sexuality as sacred

For I gave myself

and I feel tainted

I feel soiled and unclean

–

but no more,

wash me

–

another great joke

to make me howl in laughter:

how can I go

from this extreme radicalism

having thrown myself

into our collective Bacchanalia

our widespread Dynosian mania

with closed arms

a closed heart

…yet open legs

–

to now opening my heart

wide open

determined to save myself

for one who can meet me

truly meet me

on every level but physical

first

that our consummation be symbolic

a living form of art

reflecting the oneness of our hearts

I want nothing else

I want nothing else

I want nothing other than this,

Which to me is everything

–

Make me pure and virgin once again

to respect myself

and my worth

for I’ve made the two one

In the most peculiar of ways

that in opening my body

my heart too does open

so when I give to you my body

My heart is also presented

that priceless jewel

it wasn’t meant for the hands of the masses

to be tossed around for sport

–

Make me Excalibur

All my suitors come up

seeking to pull me from the stone

but only they who are pure of heart

truly pure of heart

can retrieve me

–

The hilt of the sword meant only

For the hand of one

and together will we ride

for the rest of our days

–

in my self-conservation have I found liberation.

Is gentleness

The alchemical panacea

I have long sought?

Like the ouroboros

The beginning is the end

And my womb was the ocean

To the ocean I shall return

In the beginning,

I crawled from the sea

My old stomping grounds

Are the Pacific’s shores

I slept on pillows of sand

I wore tunics of seaweed

Adornments of shells 

And of pearls

Each gifted by the goddess

To remind me of my origins

I learned to swim

Before I learned to crawl

I understood intuitively

The hand of the Moon

Cradled me and my kin

We payed her homage

Through dance

Around blazing bonfire

Full Moons invigorating the senses

Reminding us that each life has its peak

And when it comes,

To dance through the night

She taught me about family

That we are all related by blood

That the border between the animate

And inanimate

Is completely and utterly

Imaginary

She taught me that diet

Is more than what’s in your stomach

But what you allow into your heart

And that there cannot be input

Without output

That it is a gift to love others

That you gain

When you give

She taught me that Moonlight

Can be gathered into your hands

She taught me that Moonlight

Exists in our dreams

She taught me that Moonlight is love

And can be absorbed with every sense

It can be tasted, smelt, 

You can take in its texture 

Rolling it between your fingers

You can listen to it sing 

and speak

She taught me that you are Moonlight

And that I am too

She taught me that love is pain

For no one will ever love you greater

Than your mother

And that she will labor

In agony to bring you to this world

But she’d do it gladly over and over again

Enduring torture if need be

Simply to see you smile

The mother holds me in her hands

Gazing and cooing

And I watch as she changes shape

I watch as the months go by

I learn from her when she is

A gibbous

A crescent
New

Full

That even if she can’t be seen

She still carries me

That her power is subtle

Omnipresent

Permeating all

Animating all

And that her love is rage

And that her rage is born of love

And I am water

Delicate
Fragile.

I’m a boy like a pond

My eyes always armed

With an army of tears

And I can’t turn it off

I can’t turn the feelings off

And I love myself for it

I want to swaddle the world in my arms

And weep for every being’s suffering

I could cry out oceans 

I could cry out rivers

You’ve no idea my arsenal of water

You’ve no idea the hidden water table of my being

Every being has an aquifer they don’t show the world

Underneath the surface

But it’s all I can see

I can only see their water

And is that so wrong? 

We are all 70% water

So even if I forget the other 30%

I’m still 70% right

I will always be the child within

But like recognizes like — 

So I will always see

No matter the age of who is before me

That soft child,

That delicate being 

Who needs gentle words of reassurance

Let me hold the world

Show me all who haven’t been adored the way they deserve

Let me mother every being

Every hardened man,

Brows permanently furrowed,

Let me kiss his forehead,

and watch scar tissue dissolve.

Let me be the pacifying warmth that every terrified man, woman, and child needs

Give this world the hug of the Mother

Oh, heavens,

Do we all need it

So often we treat self worth as a function of supply and demand.

We so often think we have little value, just as any commodity might, if we don’t feel highly desired, or in high demand.

The less who desire something, the lower its price might be. But do not forget the supply side of the equation. The lower something’s supply is, too, the higher does its value become.

There is only one of you.

Therefore, your value will always, ALWAYS be through the roof, the stratosphere, and into the stars.

Mother’s awfully protective of her young

Her tempestuous love

Will turn the winds into legions of banshees

The seas shall hunt continents for trophy

Her lifeblood spills forth as magma

The land splits into gashes

With sweltering volcanic winters

The rage of the goddess

Is a million

black widows’ stings

Tempt her not,

for one tear of her grief

Is yet another Black Death

Untouchable by witch doctors

Her wail would send mankind

Into the Dark Ages once again

Honor your mother

For every heartbeat of yours

is at her hand

An act of mercy

for all of man

love this.

the realm of the subjective is where all meaning is derived. nothing can mean anything without feeling. this is why I think using the objective faculties of rationale, words, and logic to discuss the meaning of life will inevitably fall short.

a healthy dose of embracing the “irrational” realm of feeling is key, I think, to a meaningful life. logic can act as a prison if we use it in excess

edit: I just realized you were taking your post in a slightly different direction. Yes, I agree that a lack of spiritual nourishment can lead us, in our confusion, to seek cheap sensory substitutes.

I think there is a reason why many old spiritual paths advised some degree of asceticism in the pursuit of the divine. In allowing oneself to be deprived of sensory pleasures, we may end up finding everlasting nourishment far greater than any material pleasure could ever incur. (I once wrote a piece — hyperbolizing to make a point — that ascetics are the greatest hedonists of us all, for the pleasure and bliss that they find is everlasting and infinitely greater than any carnal pleasure one could ever indulge in.)

For example, one may give up meaningless sex — which may have mistakenly been used to cope with a lack of intimacy and connection, only leaving one emptier than before — and end up finding deep love, for themself and/or from another, far more beautiful than any hook up could ever give.

I think if we take an honest look at our vices, we can find what it is our souls are truly asking for. Then, with a bit of a push, we can upgrade whatever cheap substitute we’ve been using for a higher, more pure, and subtle version of it!