Dark Rainbow

I was just sitting here savoring the sweet ultra-violence of my mind, the sparkle of it, glittering, shone-- for a second, a toy. Clarity is, itself, intoxicating beyond measure. Seductively so. That's when it hit. Terrifying, that dark nostalgia. It's a horrible fascination. And it's delicious. Had I known what I was looking for, might have known it would go like this. A trajectory to consciousness is not without turgidity. What is glass will tend to shatter. Those parts burn away.

Diving deep into my own self-alienation, which I truly bring to the table, lifetimes hiding in plain sight. This is somehow the source of disquiet seething. There is a fear of losing connection which implies a need to locate it as the font of one's very being. That seems to be the message in the movement, in the need to revisit. There is a deeper need to understand what it's telling.

That the darkest pieces, each and every one, was necessary. I should be more grateful. Trust process. Even as it's entailed existential threat. There was never another trajectory.  It's a dark lining of brocade intensities. Everyone surrenders in bits. Dionysian. Under the rays of Sirius. Inward bound is the first path to the beyond. To turning the inside out. Stars themselves perform many tangos.



This is fiction. A story. An attempt to plumb the psychic depths of a relationship of many years. We find heights only in as much as we've embraced depths. Find a path to the stars is full frontal to annihilation. But that is precisely the nature of material existence. The cunning seek their wisdom in all places. Even in the harrowing. Prose is the fullness of that. I've been right to forestall the medium.




Mile high lacks imagination. But to the literalists we cede their adherences. Be thankful for a lifetime of useful awakenings.




Clarity emerges as the rainbow after the storm. Or the mist around the moon. Or someplace in the outthere.  The urge is epic. To acknowledge such is the doorway and the key. There was a path set in summer. In iterations. The wreckage reconnoitered.




With the terrifying nostalgia that entails, the dark part of the rainbow. All that exists finds a facet in clarity. Do you see the sages around you? So it deepens.




I look to my altar and discover the layers in which I sent this message to myself. To discover the thing in front of one's face is a tremendous revelation. Stitch in Time. Unencumbered.

You are the center of the universe which is the center of an egg that is meant to break.

End of Story. Begin.