THE CLOSET MYSTIC

And the only being for me to conquer is myself;

And I learned that through surrender, I’d do just that.

So I yield; I yield; I yield, I wave my white flag in submission, holy surrender.

And then victory becomes mine.

Just so you know, I never intended for any of this to happen.

I just need to get that way out of the way before I tell you what I am about to tell you.

I. Never. Wanted. It. To. Happen.

that being said…

I had been diving inward in a newfound meditation practice for weeks on end. 

I sought to identify with the eye of the storm, instead of the perpetual hurricane that was my mind. I had fought the chaos for so long, wrestling the crocodile of my own psyche down, down, down, down, drawing on years and years and years of athletic background to do so — no, not in terms of physical prowess, but in the mental conditioning that suffering and pain were to be pushed through with gritted teeth and clenched fists, fists clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palms and drew blood, yielding ever more pain to be fought through…

So when I had discovered that meditation could grant peace, that by surrendering and submitting to the chaos, I’d actually win the fight, somehow — that by giving up, waving my white flag, so too would the enemy, that the enemy was me, the enemy was me, and I was looking into a mirror, such is the nature of the Moon, the reflector, ruler of our inward domain,

I was that crocodile, I was that enemy, and when I sat, so too did my nemesis. Me, me, me, it was me all along, every time I pointed the finger, I was pointing it at myself, the more I pointed, the farther I got from the point — 

So, yeah. I had just started meditating. Daily. And things started to happen. Things that had already been happening, but were now taking on a newfound intensity, letting the “clair” in clairvoyance multiply by infinity and a half, whereas before I had my ear pressed against the door, and it was all muffled unless the conversations taking place behind it were particularly loud,

Now that door was blown off of its hinges, because I was meditating, and I had learned something critical about that door and the conversations I had eavesdropped  on:

That door was time, a dividing barrier between now and then, the present and the future, and the person speaking on the other side of the door was me, I thought that there were several, but such is the nature of the multiverse, the many “me’s” that were in conversation with each other, all shouting a critical message,

So it was that Tuesday morning. I had my coffee. I sat down to meditate. I contemplated meditating in the Sun or not, and I chose against it. I sat in a nondescript corner of my room, insignificant, nothing special, but the event that would take place in that very corner made me remember why rags would inevitably turn into riches, why lead would inevitably be made into gold, why diamonds were found only in roughs…

So there I sat, there I sat. I focused on my breath, my attention scattered in a million directions, the state of matter of my mind being gaseous, gaseous, gaseous, now liquid, liquid, liquid, coming in, condensing, condensing, condensing, into a very solid,

Until that solid began to condense. It began to condense into itself, and I fell into it. It condensed so greatly that I think it became a singularity, a single point in time and space with such a great gravitational force that not only could light not escape from it, time couldn’t either…

Then I heard. 

I opened my eyes, and before me was a being of light. “Bioluminescent” was how my human mind interpreted it, but there was another mind on top of that mind that gave it a word I could not comprehend, but all the same knew beyond a shadow of doubt, a level of familiarity I had never before known, a level of familiarity greater than my family, my mother, my favorite blanket, my own body and hand, a level of familiarity that was more familiar than familiar:

Arcturus. Arcturus. I was looking upon a man… no, it was definitely a woman. No, no, no… it was definitely a man. Was it.. both? It was somehow both, entirely both, and yet it was not either, and yet it was only man and only woman and both at the same time and then not again — 

He slowed me down. I felt her spirit reach out to me. He stopped me, she shut up this rambling until his mind was my mind, and she lovingly domineered my internal monologue until it was only his:

I attempt to translate this into human English, but it was not that, and more meaning than I am comfortable with is bound to be lost in that process — energy is inevitably lost every time it changes form — 

The most self-serving and selfish of people must inevitably realize that the single greatest thing they can do for themselves is humbly give to and love on others. No greater gains exist in any other act.

Additionally, the most selfless and meek of all people must realize, too, that they do others a great service by engaging in self-advocacy, for enabling another’s selfishness and laziness is to stunt their growth and do them a major disservice.

I was born

To be rejected

Objectified,

Dehumanized,

A frog born to be dissected

Organs given

In the name of science

I’d kill myself

Out of curiosity.

This week, my plans

Are as follows:

Monday, mow the lawn.

Tuesday, go to bingo night.

Wednesday, go to the beach.

Thursday, paint with my friends.

Friday, kill myself.

I’m not convinced of the decision

Having any sort of permanence

I’d like to try my limits.

I’d skip into the store

Hair in pigtails. A lollipop being suckled upon.

I’m dressed in pink! Thigh-high, rainbow socks. Glitter on my eyelids, because it’s cute.

I’d grab the rope with a lighthearted smile. I’d ask the employee their opinion on what the best rope for self-annihilation is with a giggle. I’d caress his arm, and compliment his eyes.

I’d make flirtatious small talk with the cashier. He’d ask my plans with the rope, perhaps — from my demeanor that oscillates between sultry and innocent — expecting me to hint that my well-endowed partner would be tying me up that night.

I’d tell him the truth with a grin. I’d giggle like a schoolgirl. He’d be taken aback, not know how to respond, all of the blood still in his nether regions.

I’d skip on out the door, telling him I’d see him later — I wouldn’t — innocently wagging my hips as I exit, leaving him a mixture of aroused and terrified.

That’s how I like my men.

Seen too much,

Yet never lived.

Always take —

I never give.

False displays,

Of omniscience —

Veiling my,

Deep ignorance.

All these seeds,

Never planted.

If I had,

One wish granted,

I’d ask for,

Blood to be drawn,

Let it pour,

Please bring it on —

Fill the cups,

Of those I’ve wronged —

Take it all,

Until it’s gone —

Crimson founts,

Bring forth my guilt —

Please destroy,

This life I’ve built —

Red rivers,

Baptismal floods —

Grant no Ark —

I’ll drown in blood.

And they wondered why I wore black every day,

As if they weren’t murdering love, goodness, and truth with their raised cleavers of ugliness each and every day,

As if they hadn’t arranged for me a thousand funerals, turning each day into a new one to be attended.

Everyday I mourn the death of my inner child, having to dine with the criminals with my blood on their hands… my food tastes metallic.

I ingest mouthfuls of my own innocence, taught that the cost of life is death. If I am to eat, then I must bleed.

Yes, I wear black because I mourn the death of justice, for I know that the killers walk free, and they walk among me.

We have situated ourselves here on a house in the hills, high up top, to ignore the fact that we’ve earned ourselves a spot in the depths of the underworld.

If we surround ourselves with enough beauty, then the ugliness we’ve chosen might be more tolerable. If we reside high above, then the lowliness of our hearts may be less than evident. If we fill our bank accounts, then our minds’ emptiness is a nonissue.

Engorged bellies, starving spirits. White rugs and luxurious couches, dark minds, dark hearts. They don themselves in the finest robes of white to hide that which is shadowy within. I don myself in black because they’ve obscured the light within.

I wear black because I am their shadow. I wear black because that is the nature of the occasion. I show up to the slaughter on time, prepared daily to witness the sacrifice of the innocent, for this is the way things are, the way things have always been, and the way things must be.

Overcome with the feeling that, like a dream, the absurdity of what I’ve gone through here will reveal itself more and more over time — 

Like a dream, the logic makes sense — at least a little — before it ends. But then, when you come to, and leave that world, it all seems absolutely ridiculous, and you wonder how you could have even fallen for everything in there making even the slightest bit of sense.

I am overcome with the feeling that leaving home will be the same. 

I am overcome with the suspicion and hunch too that, once I am gone, and I… come to, away from these sleepers, stumbling around half-awake, instinctual animals, rolling around in their own piss and shit, hurling it at anyone who might pass by… that it will become all the more clear how genuinely fucking absurd it all was. 

I am overcome with the feeling that my dissociative states are about the inability to make sense of what ever went on and happened, because there was no sense to be found… dissociation is the brain saying “I give up,” because what is being witnessed is incomprehensible, like the stupor one might find themself in when seeing two of another culture having a conversation in a language they cannot comprehend… soon enough, the unintelligible sounds blend into each other, and one enters a daze, a daydreaming state, right when the brain realizes it has not the tools to make sense of what is transpiring before them…

My home life was like this exactly, like an alien from another world coming to be a part of chaos and madness — in retrospect, humorous insanity, really — and dissociating from what they know to be true, to divorce themself from their expectations of what rhythms any being should adhere to, what they should dance along to, 

Letting go of one’s sense of timing, instead being grabbed by the collar and yanked, ripping that precious fabric of yours, and pulled into a dance that made no sense, a dance without harmony, a dance where elbows were thrown and black eyes were dealt freely, a dance that went along to no music, a dance that moved in cycles, in circles, without creativity, only with monotony — 

And I looked at those dancers… I sat in the middle instead, a wide-eyed youth in a stupor, and I aged there. As they cycled around me, I forgot about a world beyond that circle, I forgot that there were other dances to be discovered. I sat there, and I watched those pathetic toy soldiers move and age, and I wondered when they would grow tired. I wondered if they would ever get the hint that they could choose to move their bodies in alternate rhythms, I wondered if they knew that they didn’t have to take the hand of the one next to them, and either pull them or get pulled by them, that they didn’t have to bump shoulder to shoulder and get jostled into step by their partner, I wondered if they knew that they would live their entire life doing a single move, I wondered if they knew that when that sacred force came to them at the end, to remove them from the dance against their will, that they would finally get a chance to view, before they go, the other dancers who surrounded, that they would realize they… missed out on other parties going on all around them, parties that were joyful, parties where people could dance as they please, parties where your partner wouldn’t force you to move as they needed you to move, but rather praised you as you moved as you desired, parties that were fueled not by miseries, the flame in the center being not fear, but to be fueled by gratitude, the flame at the center being loving creativity — I wondered if they knew that as they perished, when that sacred master known as Death, the great transitioner, our greatest, most veiled friend, that they would see all that they could have done before he came for the reaping, and I wondered if they would regret it. I even wondered if they knew that I was trying to teach them new dances as they lived, and I wondered if they would realize that each time I sought to do so, each time I sought to save them from their Ferris wheel of terror, they held on tightly to what they knew, and even sought to drag me down with them. When we clasped hands, I sought to lift them up, but they sought to drag me down. I wondered if they would… feel remorse? I wondered if they would realize the gravity of their blunder, I wondered if they would realize that not only did they miss out on dances, but someone within their circle begged them to look around at anywhere but before them, and I wondered if they would feel that pinching sense of agony when they realized their mistake. 

I wonder. I wonder. I wonder. But, for now, it is not my responsibility anymore, for just as I do not wish for them to tell me how to dance, I may not do the same. I will leave. I will leave and join other circles with like-minded acrobats, gymnasts, and contortionists, I will go and join those who move like water, and not like stone. 

I will leave this dream, and leave this ugly dance, and I will discover what lies beyond

What you do not understand is this:

I am freedom.

Because you do not know freedom, you do not know me.

I am love.

Because you do not know love, you do not know me.

I am joy.

Because you do not know joy, you do not know me.

I am peace.

Because you do not know peace, you do not know me.

I am immaterial, and that is where my heart resides.

Because you’ve chained yourself to matter, you’ve no way of understanding my heart.

So, no —

You do not know me, and do not kid yourself into thinking you ever did.

I’ve been told in dreams, time and time again,

That my father is not my father,

Nor my mother my mother,

But that my true parents exist in a plane removed from our own.

I can feel their love. I know I will return home one day.

I am a changeling. I’ve always been a foreigner in my own home.

The place meant to be most familiar, I was most alien to.

All I know is I miss my family

And my mother wondered why I sold myself,

As if she hadn’t taught me my entire life that true value was found in money,

That my worth was nonexistent without fiscal gain…

As if she hadn’t valued the dollar more than her children’s wellbeing.

So why did it come as a surprise?

I will burn it all down to the ground,

I swear it,

and the bills you’ve hoarded will serve excellently as kindling.

I swear to you that I will smile as I shatter the false foundations you’ve built this “life” on.

This “life” built on death.

Your faggot son will grin as you become the shame of the family,

as they learn the truth of the fruit of your womb.

I will happily indulge this social matricide.

Your choices will become clear.

You were always going to be rejected by them, Mother, because I was always going to be rejected by them.

Instead of being rejected and judged by your family only, however, you’ve also ensured that you will be estranged from your son who loved you.

What would that even mean?

It is human nature to bear resentment against those who have wounded us.

So, when I’ve perpetually wounded not just others, but myself, over the years, how might I begin to forgive myself?

Beyond the practical understanding that forgiveness is the path to healing — that those who have wounded us need love the most (aka me) — what am I to do? What is any of that practical “knowledge” even worth?

Is forgiveness about releasing anger? Is forgiveness about forfeiting feelings of hostility and instead replacing it with understanding?

I am understandably annoyed and frustrated with myself, as I’d like to be better. However, I fail to recognize that, like a plant, I too need water and sunlight if I am to grow. Without such, I will wither and perish.

To punish myself for not having grown tall and strong, I block the Sun’s rays, I deny nourishing water that can mend me deep in my roots. I yell at myself for not being better. I demand more from myself; and, as punishment, I deny myself the very tools needed to make that happen.

“Why are you withering?” I bark at myself, as I deny myself the pitcher, as I stuff myself in a dark closet.

“Why are you wilting?” I demand, as I step on my own central stem.

A stern, severe father. A rebellious, unruly son. No matter how many beatings are dealt, somehow, the son doesn’t get his act together.

And, as is the nature of the insane, he continues.

All I’ve ever wanted is a loving embrace. Why, oh why am I afraid of giving it to the boy in the mirror?