THE CLOSET MYSTIC

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?

I have now realized that that which exists within is priceless compared to the finite worth of that which exists without.

I have discovered inner jewels that make any diamond of any earthly mine pale in comparison;

I have circled the earth multitudes of times in a single night laying in my own bed.

Of these inner landscapes, I am a pioneer — a pioneer of that very final and first frontier, from whence it all began, and to which it all shall end.

I am a snake biting its own tail.

I have discovered that my pride is a useless attempt to demonstrate to others how spectacular these inner realms are.

Humility is realizing that these inner beauties are not my own. Humility allows one to receive and witness evermore of them. My pride was an ignorant, flailing, missed grasp at making the beauty my own. Non-attachment is the same as surrendering the ego in this regard, as seeking to identify with the grandeur of the holy beauty that passes through oneself is like uselessly trying to grasp something gaseous.

Love cannot truly be so with attachment. One taints the object of their affection with a clasped hand. The flower does not just die if you pick it; if you stand over it long enough, even with a gaze of admiration, you block the life-giving rays of the Sun. In standing over it, neck curved downward towards that lovely flower of the Earth, it too wilts and curves, drooping towards the soil, to be swallowed by it if you do not step back.

If you love something, water it. Let it blossom into more of what it is. If you love something, love both what it is, and its highest potential. Know that it may grow so tall that it extends away from you, and to prevent this process from happening is like clipping the wings of a bird to keep it to yourself.

Water that which you love, but be careful not to drown it. Do not think you are doing it any favors in doling out surpluses of affection. She needs time to absorb and make use of what has been given. More is not always more — less, however, often is.

Love it no matter the season. Love her when she is flowering and rich. Love her when winter has come and made her shed all color.

Love her in all cycles of life, all shades, each an equally-beautiful emanation of her beauty.

The way I love you…

It is like a resurrection.

What died?

Belief,

Goodness.

Belief in goodness.

Faith,

Love.

Faith in love,

and love of faith.

Wonder.

Awe.

Gentleness.

Compassion.

Curiosity.

Forgiveness.

All virtue. All things good. All things true. All things pure.

And so I hid. And so I crawled into my cave. An act of cowardice.

And there I stayed, awfully afraid.

And there, I think, I met you.

I think, there, is when I met my heart.

I found the subtle and pure center within. I ran away to protect it. I tended gently to that soft core.

And I think it was you.

I think I left to prepare myself for you. I think my cave was like a bride’s chamber. I think I had to be hidden from the rest of the world, until we were ready to become one.

How I hid. How I hid behind my veil, only to be revealed by your perfect hand. Only the softest touch could pull the curtain.

I think you were Arthur. I think you pulled me from the stone. I think only you could have softened me enough to retrieve me, rescue me, from the hard rock.

Now my hilt rests in your hand,

my liberator.

I belong amongst the trees

To lay

still, half-buried in the dirt

I am convinced that any other way of living is delusion

And nothing more

Let the hair I blossom be my leaves

Might my place be a humble cell in a grand ecosystem

I don’t want to be anything

The Earth’s fertile productivity is enough for me

Pointless complexities stupefy me

Meaningful simplicities enlighten me

There is nothing to do here

but play

I think we are playing the game wrong

And I think we forgot that it is indeed a game

An intruder implies a boundary.

One can only be called a trespasser if there is private property to be trespassed upon.

Thus, intrusive thoughts necessarily require a wall we’d prefer to keep ourselves behind, with unwanted visitors out.

What is the name of that wall?

The name of that wall is shame. It is our own personal judge, the decider of right and wrong. The keeper of taboos, the sole enforcing power it has being fear.

I’d argue that the function of the wall — though it appears to be in keeping things OUT — is actually to keep us IN. To contain us, cage us, imprison us.

The whole of the psyche contains the entirety of human experience. It is the nature of the ego to only identify, however, with that which is deemed “good,” and to disembody and project elsewhere that which is “bad.”

This duality is the creation of that very wall. The more concerned we are with being “good,” the stronger that wall becomes. However, so, too, do the visitors from beyond it grow in power.

I’ll say it again: that wall is the boundary of “good” and “bad.” Inside the wall, where we prefer to reside, is where we keep the “good” that we prefer to identify with. Outside, beyond the boundary, is the “bad” we fear.

Again, though, the entirety of the psyche, and the whole and total self, contains light and dark alike. I believe the goal must be to integrate these two forces into one and love the whole of the self.

These thoughts only become powerful, scary, and menacing if we fear them and keep them out; if we allow them into the wall, however, and welcome them as honored house guests, offering our warmth, hospitality, and comfort, they transmute themselves suddenly from the dark, deathly lead they appeared as, and become precious metal as gold and silver.

You give the monster a hug, and suddenly it’s no longer a monster, but a teddy bear. I think a practical way to give the monster a hug is to adapt it safely into art…

The function of that wall changes over time and is decided entirely by social indoctrination. Note that in different cultural contexts, that which is deemed a welcome visitor from beyond the wall will change. A closeted homosexual may be taught that his same-sex desires need to be kept from beyond the wall. A gay man who accepts himself welcomes him as a guest.

Impulses to murder would be accepted in ancient cultures that honored the glory of the warrior; now, however, with the “civilization” of society (a fancy name for the heightening of that wall), those impulses must be kept tightly behind that wall.

Literal external representations of what we keep behind that wall are what we sentence prisoners for. That which we deem worthy of being jailed are literal representations of that which society deems must be kept as an unwelcome visitor. Excommunicated.

This idea is explored in The Secret History, by character Julian Morrow. The liberation from the “self” described by the professor is the destruction of that wall, and complete, often raucous, communion with all beings beyond the wall — indiscriminate as can be.