THE CLOSET MYSTIC

October 15th, 2025

did we make love? I’m not sure. I don’t think we “made” anything. I think we already had plenty.

I think the lovemaking was metaphor, I think it was art. I think art is taking something ordinary and turning it into a symbol, the redemption of matter. To take what is mundane and make it sacred, some secret act of magic, some enchantment.

I don’t think we made love— we already had all the love in the world. I think we made art, though. I think we told each other of our love, a confession: our hearts already were one. Our bodies followed, told of that truth.
October 15th, 2025

he spoke of his favorite philosophers. none of them spoke of love. i can only conclude: they didn’t know a damn thing
October 15th, 2025

I wish I could shield you from your own regret. But it’s not my fault— every time you thought yourself truly great, you kept yourself from knowing true greatness. Pride cometh before the fall, yes— but pride can also prevent you from rising to any height worth falling from at all.
the suffering is different now.

October 15th, 2025

suffering breaks the silence, it does, it does. my mind’s gone quiet, there’s a quietness in stability. what do you do when all you’ve known your entire life is the sound of suffering?

i went to therapy and stopped having things to talk about. i opened my notebook, i had plenty to write about, little to whine about.

but the suffering, it changes its tone, living alone. i know i can feel still, books move me to tears. i can be moved, i can feel. but there is a quietness, it’s all so quiet.

i relish it, this silence is the sweetest sound.

stability is the strangest feeling after having known turbulent seas for so long— like hopping off a boat after the most treacherous of journeys. you can still feel the rocking of the ocean, even here, on solid ground. a phantom of the past.

but that’s all the past is, now: a ghost. i remember when i cried, night and day, for what i have now.
October 14th, 2025

i think i’m done pretending. i thought i’d make it— i haven’t. why fake it?

this “confidence” is a shell. i’ve known love that’s pierced its veil.

what if i could let myself be loved as a human? what then? what if i could be a flawed human and bare it all: honest. myself.

what if i surrendered not just all that i am, but all that im not?

what then? what if i surrendered all i wished i was?

what might that be like? do i know how to love myself in that way, to love another in that way?

i think i’m done pretending. with that mask, you try to attract another. little did you know: you repelled what was honest.

no, opposites do not attract. you will not attract something true with pretty little lies. peel off that mask: your true face. there is a beholder who will see beauty.
recurring dreams

October 12th, 2025

The rest of the world is clothed, I alone am naked before a crowd. I run, and I hide — every spot I find is ripped from me — again, everyone’s eyes. Why am I so exposed? Why am I so bare? Why must I be so seen?

Why does the world hide? On me, I feel everyone’s eyes. Oh, my shame! I alone am a naturist in a world of Puritans. Their modesty makes me feel more naked than naked. A shadow cast over their eyes while I alone am thrust into the light. I can feel the judgement, I can feel the silent condemnation. But I can’t do it, I cannot hide! I’m stripped before the masses, but I think I’d suffer more standing among them, clothed, packed like sardines, side-by-side.

I cannot hide, cannot even try. But here am I, thrust into the light. I stand tall, I stand high: I bare it all. I need not hide.
Chiron

October 12th, 2025

Chiron,

who can be worthy

to hold healing’s key

without first being wounded?

the initiate must suffer

and walk that long road.

along that path,

there are many a straggler.

many

who have given up the search

for some destination.

con artists

litter the sidelines,

selling their poison as healing.

but there is a light,

there is a light in that distance,

should you choose to see it.

but it is a long road.

it is a long road,

your body will ache,

you will tire,

but it is love

that suffers long,

it is love

that perseveres,

it is love alone

that guarantees safe passage.

you will take love’s hand—

she will not take away the ache,

but she will stroke your hair through it.

she will not cure your pain,

no, she will not erase your fear—

but she will sing to you through the night.

so walk that long road,

and take love

as your companion.
October 11th, 2025

the aftermath of a shooting star—that is what you are. a star falls from the heavens, celestial light gracing mankind. here am i, a mere mortal, walking with an angel. how lucky am i, to have your hand in mine. what higher fortune have i to thank? i know not, for you are my lucky star.

you are what happens when ether fuses with clay, when the heavens fuse with the earth.
October 11th, 2025
things that i think are sins:
- being in a hurry all the time
- acting like every minor inconvenience is the universe conspiring against you
- never taking the time to simply observe the world without stimulation—just observation.
- being too afraid to ever create, or dance, or say hi to that stranger, or to tell that person how you feel. some of the deepest sins against oneself and the world happen not from malice, but from fear.
- never sincerely saying, “i love you.”
who makes miracles?

October 10th, 2025

you were shaped

like God

took his time with you—

the hidden hand

of the sculptor

carved you with intent,

like it relished

the shaping

of your lips,

the slope

of your hips.

but,

if this art

was by accident,

like

the splattered canvas

of a sunset,

then I’ll call

sheer randomness

my God,

and my savior—

for you are myth,

you’re poetry,

you’re music,

you are all things

divine.

who makes miracles?

I can’t say—

but, as far as they go,

you are mine.

the suffering is different now.

recurring dreams

Chiron

who makes miracles?