THE CLOSET MYSTIC

Pride is the snipping of the proverbial umbilical chord between us and the divine.

To tell yourself “I got this,” will grant you just that. (Hint: we don’t “got this.”)

Pride is anti-truth. It is innately confused. All life is interdependent on each other. All life is connected. Each and every one of us is shit out of luck without each and every other link in this enormous chain. Indra’s net is large. Each knot is critical to the survival of the whole net itself. If one knot is torn, the wind may get through and rip the entire web.

To be so utterly blinded by hubris that one convinces themself that they would be fine without the rest of the system is like a plant refusing water, sunlight, and soil.

The prideful are uprooted plants determined to survive self-sufficiently. The prideful are plants that think they grew themselves, ignoring the nourishing fellowship of the Sun, of the Soil, and of the Water.

There is no greater strength than humility. The humble willingly receive water, Sunlight, and nutrients from the soil. They grow big; they grow tall; they grow strong; but they never forget that their greatness was fueled only by the life-giving elements.

Pride credits itself with its apparent greatness, rather than that which truly created it. In refusing, and separating, oneself, from that which truly created its greatness, it inevitably withers.

Pride cometh before the fall, like a withering plant.

The only way to exist with humility in this world, amongst such frequent injustice, is to hurt fully for what you see.

The moment the hurt is refused, and turned instead to defensiveness or anger, is the moment that pride takes over; then, the hurt is passed around — like a game of hot potato.

Hold the potato. Let it burn your hands. Endure the pain in sacrifice for the whole, instead of giving it to your neighbor in cowardice.

Know that the salve to remedy the burns exist within, but it will only be granted to you once you brave the ache in the first place.

It is a great tragedy for the seeds of creativity that lay within to never be planted into fertile soil to sprout and blossom into the beautiful marvels they are capable of becoming.

There are many who become seed collectors, “ooo-ing” and “ah-ing” at the varieties of different seeds they’ve gathered, but who never care to plant them — relishing in the imagined product of what they could become, instead of tending to the work required to make it such.

There are many who plant as many seeds as possible, feverishly, in a manic excitement of what they would become, but water it once, forgetting to return to the plants, thus allowing them to wither. They gather a series of pots with dead flowers and plants, each one a testament to their refusal to diligently tend to their potential creations.

There are many who never bother to check if they have any seeds at all, living perhaps in vicarious enjoyment of those who have sprouted great, marvelous plants, but never supposing that they, too, could do so themselves.

I strive to be of the rare few, who not only accumulate precious, valuable seeds, but remain committed to their blossoming over time — balancing, unifying, and harmonizing creative vision with practical work.

A desperate confusion.

Feverishly, blindly groping dark caverns.

“I know there’s a way out. I’ve seen Sunlight!”

Lost in the dark.

He grew quite adept at navigating the labyrinthine perils.

Diligently.

Sweatily.

An odd cocktail of anger, panic, and investigatory desperation.

Strange amalgam of despair, tension, and a restless patience.

He took himself for countless, pointless self-initiations. Assuming imaginary burdens as wholly necessary. Strain a prerequisite for being.

His inner landscapes were anything but monochrome suffering, however. Yes, while he tormentedly, perpetually navigated the shadowy subterranean, the Sun still shone above.

Yes, while there was the constant background noise of angsty unrest lingering in his psyche, there were places of solace, even in the chthonic.

Areas where the Sun confidently reached his arms down into the cave system. Where the boy felt he could reach back, grabbing his Father’s luminous hand, to at last be rescued once and for all…

Of course, his hands fell through the photons each time, reminding him of his own entrapping weight, an omnipresent quality he could not escape — strain a prerequisite for just being…

Longing to be untethered like the essence of the divine pouring through the cracks of the cave, reminded of his physical vessel being like a cage for his bird-like spirit.

Caves haven’t much room for birds to fly.

I’ve terribly misled you if I made it seem as if he was alone. No — he was not, though it certainly felt that way to him. His physical vessel was certainly accompanied by other ones, though his spirit wasn’t sure how many others surrounded.

A glorious form of suffering stimulated his spirit, if we can define suffering as a longing unmatched. It was the longing for Home. Not home, mind you, but Home, with a capital ‘H’.

The home tossed to him by Fate’s tossing of her own dice could never satiate him. It was empty and cavernous, assuming the qualities of the tunnels of the underworld nation in which he was born.

Somewhere in his own heart, however, distant by light-years, yet too close for comfort all the same, existed the memory of Home.

Where home was emptiness, Home was fullness. Where home was coldness, Home was compassion. Where home was shadow, Home was the rich light projecting outward, making the shadows dance.

Yes, Home was where he belonged, and he knew it so. From a very young age, he knew — or at least felt — the difference between home and Home.

As he grew older, the nonverbal wrongness he carried with him through the tunnels became more well-defined. As the issue became identified in greater detail, so too did the gnawing — until it could no longer be ignored.

Growing in strength, and growing in power, he plotted escape from home, to embrace Home once and for all. So began the great getaway.

From home to Home.

From family to Family.

By studying the external universe, I come to know my inner one;

By studying my inner universe, I come to know the outer one.

A common bond,

The two correspond.

And the real fun,

Is knowing they’re one.

I belong in the clouds

So heightened and untethered

I’m at the speed of sound

I rule the skies and weather

Away from men so proud

By ignorance unfettered

Their voices raised and loud

And each one thinks they’re better

distinguished from the crowd

Of trends I am the setter

The queen of winds I’m crowned

Omnipotent air bender

I have now torn the veil

And gaze upon her splendor

I’m not sure if I’m male

She blurs the lines of gender

The skies begin to hail

This union is a mender

My heart’s one holy grail

The chains have now been severed

Our love will never fail

It’s her and I forever

Her wind picks up my sail

And blesses my endeavors.

A rose has thorns,
Of necessity —
It’s not of scorn,
They preserve beauty.

So don’t be torn,
Over their cruelty —
Know you were born,
to blossom fully.

The fangs adorn,
Protective jewelry —
Don’t be forlorn,
Defend harmony.

Know we would mourn,
A world not flow’ry —
Embrace your thorns,
Be sweet & soury.

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder,

How can we ever make it through?

And yet no matter the blunder,

We always will & always do —

Even if we get sucked under,

We re-emerge from the deep blue.

Our love won’t be torn asunder,

It’s far too strong and far too true.

The very thought makes me shudder,

My nightmare’s ever losing you.

So listen close when I utter,

We will make it as one from two.

Behind a window pane,

She’s on the other side.

And to my seething pain,

The law dictates she hides.

Caressing foggy glass,

So painfully estranged.

I know this cannot last,

Each day I grow deranged.

So then I turn away,

In spite of fervent knocks,

I know they’ll call me gay,

I know the way they talk.

But given enough time,

It’s guaranteed to break.

My blood will spill like wine,

They burn me at the stake.

A fool only disrupts,

The mold of being man.

My mind must be corrupt,

How could I understand?

So surely I am sick,

They’ll tell me who I am.

“Your mind has just been tricked,”

“God has a perfect plan.”

I am bound by pain

The goddess on the other side

Of the window pane

To appease them away she hides

Our hands touch the glass,

We’re the same and yet we’re estranged.

How long can I last?

When she’s free they think I’m deranged

So I turn away

Despite all her violent knocking

They’ll all call me gay

Can already hear them talking

However in time

The glass inevitably breaks

My blood spills like wine

Shards of glass and burned at the stake

How dare I disrupt

What it means to truly be man

My mind is corrupt

They tell me I don’t understand

Surely I am sick

And I cannot know who I am

My mind has been tricked

I should not go against God’s plan