It is my duty, and my honour.
Jul. 1st, 2006 02:23 amFacilitation. Catalysation. Binding, weaving, emitting, transmitting. Delivering that which wants to be delivered.
Nexus point, and even if that means there is little that stays close, for long, it means that I cherish what does, all the more.
More than likely, I know what's in your heart, and I know what you need. My job is to make sure you give it to yourself. Your job is to ask.
It is late, and I've had a great many things touch me, mentally, today.
mech_angel is asleep, and her tiredness-- and the NyQuil she took-- are reaching out for me, wrapping tendrils 'round, so well, so I ask your forgiveness, if this sounds a little... Whatever.
What do you do? I've hated that question, for a long time now. People, when they meet you, they ask "So what do you do?" like you can always sum it up in words that they'll even understand as english, let alone understand to mean anything.
"I bring light to dark places and darkness to light places. Dreams to the sleepless, and madness to the lucid. I am the primal centre of all ordered chaos, and I am the death that brings you running, full tilt, into your life. 'Lo, I am become Shiva, destroyer of worlds.' What about you? What do you do?"
We're students, teachers, doctors, lawyers, corporation desk monkeys, magicians, charlatains, gods and demons. Writers and artists, sidewalk preachers and nut house inmates with fecal matter on our pants and shoulders because they won't undo the straps, or give us any proper tools. So we make due.
If you're looking for a point, here, you're not really going to find one. I'm just talkin' 'bout Shaft.
You amaze me, startle me, daily, with the little things, the turns of phrase, the ways in in which you want to be held and told it's ok, and the ways in which you break free of the comforting hands that hold you down, so that you can rise, bearing all that's in your path, creating everything in your wake.
Stars, in The Wake. I just got that. Sometimes it takes years, and some dimensia, to remember what you know. But you know that.
You ebb and flow and edge and slow closer to your self, now, and you wrap up tight inside, so that you can realise what little there is to hold onto, and how much there is to protect. I deliver messages.
I'll tell you anything you want to hear. Whatever you think you need.
Ask the right questions, of anyone, and you'll get the proper answer. Word choice. Precision.
This has been your writing/reading meditation, for the evening. Had this been an actual shift in consciousness, the colour insinuating itself into the back of your throat, at the moment, would be purple, rather than sea foam green.
Thank you, for your attendance. Carry On.
Nexus point, and even if that means there is little that stays close, for long, it means that I cherish what does, all the more.
More than likely, I know what's in your heart, and I know what you need. My job is to make sure you give it to yourself. Your job is to ask.
It is late, and I've had a great many things touch me, mentally, today.
What do you do? I've hated that question, for a long time now. People, when they meet you, they ask "So what do you do?" like you can always sum it up in words that they'll even understand as english, let alone understand to mean anything.
"I bring light to dark places and darkness to light places. Dreams to the sleepless, and madness to the lucid. I am the primal centre of all ordered chaos, and I am the death that brings you running, full tilt, into your life. 'Lo, I am become Shiva, destroyer of worlds.' What about you? What do you do?"
We're students, teachers, doctors, lawyers, corporation desk monkeys, magicians, charlatains, gods and demons. Writers and artists, sidewalk preachers and nut house inmates with fecal matter on our pants and shoulders because they won't undo the straps, or give us any proper tools. So we make due.
If you're looking for a point, here, you're not really going to find one. I'm just talkin' 'bout Shaft.
You amaze me, startle me, daily, with the little things, the turns of phrase, the ways in in which you want to be held and told it's ok, and the ways in which you break free of the comforting hands that hold you down, so that you can rise, bearing all that's in your path, creating everything in your wake.
Stars, in The Wake. I just got that. Sometimes it takes years, and some dimensia, to remember what you know. But you know that.
You ebb and flow and edge and slow closer to your self, now, and you wrap up tight inside, so that you can realise what little there is to hold onto, and how much there is to protect. I deliver messages.
I'll tell you anything you want to hear. Whatever you think you need.
Ask the right questions, of anyone, and you'll get the proper answer. Word choice. Precision.
This has been your writing/reading meditation, for the evening. Had this been an actual shift in consciousness, the colour insinuating itself into the back of your throat, at the moment, would be purple, rather than sea foam green.
Thank you, for your attendance. Carry On.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-02 05:24 pm (UTC)This is beautiful. I can see the stems of this in recent reading, in the idea of will being a force beyond imagining, being MADE of will. Everyone of us is, to a point. It's just the question of whether that will is a thing like unto mashed potatoes, like mud, or the edges of diamond and titanium.
Reception is fuzzy, here. We need reminders to keep from being swallowed in the noise around us.
no subject
Precisely my point... And the idea of turning the one into the other. Pleasant.
Vernacular Prime
Date: 2006-07-03 08:45 pm (UTC)(I) Often leave out the self-descriptor in active sentences, along the lines of "Went to work." Not sure how closely that qualifies.
Re: Vernacular Prime
Date: 2006-07-03 09:00 pm (UTC)