and the ego will scream loud… enticing with it’s juicy carrot (or a rotten one).  don’t follow that thought too close, don’t empower the lie.  it will only lead you down the wrong hole, little rabbit.

these tricks are for kids now.

for the truth reveals itself in darkness and between dreams. and the ego will shout, while intuition pulses.  touch her.  feel her warmth on your bones.

The perpetually broken goddess… an ocean of emotion pooled inside of her belly.. attempting to steel herself against the outside, to protect the outside from a stormy inside… seeking a filmy barrier, soft enough to bend, but not to the point of puncture. That barrier is a pretense, only perpetuating what’s already there, and so she waits for a container solid enough to spill into. Those troubles collected and exchanged through time and space from other hearts and minds, and hers… they all seek respite. Alchemy.

So fill her up and strip her down, drink from her ocean and spit it back out again, for there will always be more…streaming from that perpetually broken goddess riding crocodile tears through the cycles and the rhymes. The ebb and flow ranging from the crass to sublime.

Tis the seasons of a life.  And only this. You see?

To work and to play, to break and to sew.  And that beautiful expanse of sky opens when every moment is a season, so big and so small, it’s own necessary piece, of the mosaic, of a living masterpiece. Emptiness is so full of riches…

I see her now as a paper doll, un-real, standing on the edge of a cliff surrounded by tall grass and facing the sea with arms wide and mouth open to the skies… allowing the wind to blow right through cut out arms and cut out legs. The seasons directing the path and the breeze dictating decision. Presently placed exactly where they are needed, as if life was the sea, and she, was perched on the edge, already always waiting, to dive in again.

Perpetually broken goddess on the reap and on the mend.

Building identity like a house of cards.  Only to bulldoze it again as the wind changes shape.

No butterfly in a pin-box, here.

Blown over there with the cows and the children and the beggars and the goats and the shit and the fumes. and the Love.

A pulsing eco-system that crumbles under the weight of self-made walls (shattering illusion onto a soiled street.)

Life is like this maybe.

Kneel to pick up a piece of truth, dust it off, examine the new edges, and let it float away.



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