A Song of Death in the Midst of Suburbanism.
I want to write about abuse. Abuse of human beings, abuse of Earth, abuse of life, abuse of death, abuse of love, abuse of the self.
The first to start the abusive behavior is ourselves towards the self. As everything in the Universe, It stars within. And it starts with the “Evaluation Issue” — what we think that we deserve. But trauma and misidentification opens holes and creates edges between the self and the one we project ourselves to be.
Sometimes in the place of love lies un-love, and no matter how much we try to, we get lost in projections.
So by honoring the midnight hour, I shall sing a midnight prayer to all that it is not. I will pour a vessel of wine to all the gone blood, to chase away the absence and the mist. I shall pray for the dead bones of my enemies. I shall sing the twelve songs of Death and her Sacred Life ritual. Old mirrors hold no power and the self can’t be stolen by those who hold not thy self.
The white maiden walks the bridges she creates. The wheel spins. It rotates and rotates, crushing the skulls of the dead but they still walk. Have they seen their end yet?
Mirrors do break and the Hydra dies. Judgment belongs to the Gods and they shall take my prayer to all that is gone. They shall hold my prayer and be honored by the wine in the vessel. Sacred Smoke by Sacred Smoke they shall fill the dead bones of my enemies, to those who hold not a self with ancient deeds to be paid. Blood by blood, pain by pain, it shall fill the circles of my enemies.
But how much does it cost to see things as they truly are…?
Crazily we still ask all from love. And… and do not misunderstand me, I do encourage people to ask all from love. The darkness and the light. The Ego and the Edge.
But most of all, I encourage people to love like the Moon does, seeing one as he fully is or as she fully is and still be there. Without seeing but by just projecting, we shall be very lost, in labyrinths built by ourselves. And yes, sometimes we project love when there isn’t. And while looking for the solar hero, we meet all kinds of creatures projecting himself as him but being not.
Identity can only be stolen while it is just a projection, not the true fact standing in full truth. And Truth, it isn’t ugly, Truth is beauty.
While I am shedding another skin, some bridal dresses pop out on the TV. White and shiny, with models who don’t look human, they pose in front of the camera, feigning the happiest day of the buyer’s life. Feigning and fashioning oneself into archetypes of the 21st century. Into happy-to-be or happy-to-seem individuals. Persons without a worry, without an opinion, without a being.
And slowly as mortals of this century imitate the shadows, they become them. While the so-civilized hybrids called humans run from Antiquity, run away from the Pyramids and all the great mysteries of this Earth, they invite oblivion into their cubical structured walls of the mind. They run and they run and they run to dementia and away from knowing. But we once knew.
We once knew our deities, and we didn’t call ourselves uncivilized totemic cultures. And even when we were living under the totems of animals and sacred trees, we seem to have been more aligned with this planet. Now, there seems to be only death. Death on the poles of the Earth, uncovering and covering mortal perceptions. And there is nothing I feel the need more of.
It is a time of twilight. A time of dying. A time of you and me understanding who we really are, beyond the illusion of being. The time lies darkest as the Moon cycles, breathing as a clock counting the momentums. Breath after breath. Pause after a pause. The Oracles sing somewhere not far away. They sing and they wait for us to move forward. To move onwards, nearer to the self and further from the persona.
Nearer to you and me at the same time. Because in the silence I am still there, through the façades of it all falling and failing, because they can’t catch the rhythm of the breath. We aren’t a façade, still the space between us hurts. As the cold wind throws away what has been unfiltered yet. What has been denied and unseen?
The veins of this earth lie in the dark phase of the Moon. As powerful as the civilized man thinks he is, the darker it gets. Crisis follows. Crisis doesn’t sleep. And it doesn’t turn off. It wakes you up in the middle of the night and takes you where the wolves howl and kill. A friend told me some days ago, “We need to turn back in the position we hold in space, not inside the system.” There it all starts to make sense.
I wish I’d feel my own beauty in this dark night chorus of the dead. I wish I could argue all that’s happened with you and hold the truth for the one that got away and still tries to return…
I feel like I am releasing my own verses to the sea…
Aren’t my verses on you as lost as you are?
Or maybe you aren’t, maybe it is I who misconceptions herself. I wish I could be a thousand things, yet I am just a white maiden in the dark forest on a full night.
Nature and laws of physics do not speak about division. They exclude it. Therefore communicating to us, creatures of different species, that division doesn’t exist.
Death lives. As crazy as it sounds. Death lives… and it walks… breathes. Has lungs and desires.
A day after the solstice, I feel dead. I see Time trespassing me. I see leaves mourning. Trees look insensitive to the chaos that holds this Earth. Myths speak of Inanna hunting the underworld. To gain its wisdom, to meet life amongst the dead. I try and breathe. The night breathes too. Somehow she looks more alive than I ever was.
I remember what they taught me in school: black is not a color but the fullness of every color. This night must be full then. In these chaotic momentums, it is more alive than I am. Certainly so.
Because in the silence I am still with you, but you still deny me. The night holds this earth and her wisdom makes me understand I always knew of your un-love, but I decided to deny it. If I would have left before you did, nothing of this would have happened. Now you try to return. Your un-love projected as amusement makes me laugh, it can’t hurt me anymore.
I will say something that shall save us both and kill this endless winter between us: “You are not meant to love me, you are not obliged to love me, and neither am I.” Pretending so has sickened us for ages and left me stuck in holes… you got stuck in those paper wings until you realized you couldn’t fly with them.
None is meant to love anyone or obliged to. We walk our paths differently. Some fall into a house of cards, and some burn that house down.
I wouldn’t be here fighting all kinds of creatures… and indeed I am still winning over them. As ugly as they are, as monstrous as all this time in darkness has made them, they are just as weak as I thought I was, but I really am not. I came here to defeat the monsters I created myself. Head after head they fall. The Hydra breaks the mirrors because she can’t stand her own image. She is done and dying in this black forest.
I walk on galaxies and stars follow. I am waiting to come alive. Fully; without the hurt, without the loss of identity, without the denial of my beauty. Because I am all the phases of the Moon and her myths cometh true. I am the Moon and the night.
Like the waves on the sea in this dark night your vision misses, but I promise to find myself, branch by branch, vision after vision.
The night tries and speaks. I try to understand.
“A willfully blind man doesn’t deserve beauty,” I hear the night speak.
So it is. This night is full. Full of Truth. I as the night become full. Full of loudness, full of beauty, full of light. I as the Moon take full responsibility for my image…
I don’t hide anymore. I cycle.
As my image reflects death, the night explains that death is forever searching for life and life for death. They need each other as primordial beings. I shall see who I shall choose to be as the night teaches me to come alive, to stretch my being into hers as she holds the stars and me.
It is a time for us to be and a time for us to be not. The sacred great Kali seems to say, “What it never was, it can never be.”
Whether you are or you are not, it doesn’t concern my subconscious anymore. And as continuously you try to move forward in the same situation, moving nowhere in time by making circles I wish you would kill. But… within and without this absence I saw circles strangle themselves… non-comprehensiveness created large edges in time and emotions. Time is a dancer of circles. As her own goddess. The great Kali.
I used to romanticize every cubic room till I broke them all. If you can’t understand the one you love and you stop trying to, maybe it is long over. Maybe you are lost in translation too. But inside the massively immense Universe, I still wish you would not get lost… I still pray for you to find yourself. And even if the masses are always lost, I hope you would get through them and reach your own power.
Maybe I am too hopeful. I have learned in all my years that only the fight would get you out of your own anxiety, out of un-love. I am still waiting for the Moon.
Verses are all that I have left.
As the wheel spins, ancient goddesses sing surrounding the aureola of Earth. How much time has passed between us? Sequels of centuries have returned their thrones to the deities. And the goddesses sing. The wheel spins. Who said darkness was the enemy?
Love stories turn to gold, but ours got lost into the red seas.
I raise my glass to all the times that were and are dead.
To all the times that you have left me.
Holding of breath. Lies fly here and there. I am making my way out of this black forest. An enchanted glass. Spells in Latin flying around the space. Territorium.
I am in there, in here, protecting my territories.
Vanity after vanity, one epic story after another. As the pages of some heroic book. Suburban stories are dying. They never felt real to any of my serpentine skins.
But epics did. The tales of heroes and heroines are written in the trees and skies of this Earth and within my skin.
Tonight I will invoke Artemis. The huntress. Protector of the wolves. She who never bows down to what is not. She who never bows down to un-love. And like her, I will leave from where I don’t belong and raise my bow higher, till…
… till the great goddess, the Moon, sings my stories and crowns me.
Ina Gjata is a moon-lover, art critic, journalist, painter, and life-lover, who’s been published on “The House of Twigs”. She is passionate about the wild feminine and wild creatures, and doesn’t do well with system rules, regulations, and lies. A born rebel being, she believes real truth is inside us all and that writing is a piece of the great truth, meant to be told, and manifested.