there is a lot to solve about this world. i want it to be my job, at the same time i known it cannot be. because to be attached to my accomplishments is to be nothing but a man who suffers. an earthly nothing. a basic bitch. so! whatever my pursuit, it is a form of meditation, not an end of itself.

there is a layer of doubt that sits on me like smokedirt, deep in my pores, heavy on my organs, and the writers-block vines creep forth and choke the virgin creativity waters from my energy-body, and thus i second-guess my writing and stop, annoyed, suddenly hungry, and prickly all over.

that is known as an ogre, or an enemy of the hero. doubt in my creative ability is one of my ogres. we are all heroes, on our hero journey through this dream-space-joke we call the earth existense, and we all have ogres. they will be different than your neighbors and your sisters, but in the eyes of god nothing is large nor small, thus all things are ogres, different strage shapes, but equal.  they are the tengu, the dogs of heaven pretending to wish murder with their bites and lies and swords and masks while all the while being secretly an ogre teacher here to teach, wearing one mask of eternity over another, hiding her heavenservant nature.

he pushes the water closer. sharks disperse, for it becomes too clearmarine, and the yellowfin jumpers thrive. a man in feathers chants and bows on a cliff toward the setting sun, then spends all night dancing by the waves, like a condor, then like a dolphin.

i am so competitive. you know its bad when you’re competing with yourself eating a salad (eat it perfectly!)

its a tremendous pressure, the expectations that come from within. they can be stifling. they are subtle as well, almost invisible. like an moonlight cage, like a void-bubble that reflects your inner world but is merely #prison.

i’ve felt a lot of pain in my life, and yet i feel weak when i say that. like i didn’t go through enough to really say life has been painful. i don’t give myself that respect, that validation, that yes, it was hard. I might not be a soldier of the battlefield, a bleeding patriot, but i am a serious being who feels the secret swords that fly invisibly like the wind through life and cuts us all.

i can feel it in my heart, right now, the energy feels different, like a rage-anguish, the pushing against the cage by a corpse heart, still miraculous even in death. it shoots down my arm, loosens my stageleft tightness in the neck. and they tell me energy isn’t real. trust a doctor. take the pills. take the knife, let me FUSE YOUR BONES!

whoa back off hyper pharma medicate-the-earth hustler union; i’ll yoga my way out of this one ❤

and reiki. yoga and reiki spring from the same veiled waterspout deep in the garden of eden. god flits by now and then, leaving a little glowing footprint on the grass.

some people don’t believe in reiki. MOST. fine. forget about reiki. that’s an advanced level of understadning anyhow, not to call you a slippery monkey fuck with bananas for brains, i’m not saying that. but you must be quite open and optimistic about the spiritual truthstuff, in order to embrace reiki. to many, it simply does not exist. like the fallen angel can no longer fly because greed has made her forget her wings completely. such is the stock-fitting of a man.

what does the animal know of god? nothing. we must teach ourselves, pushing through the neon mental jungle in our energy heart, slipping through the snakes sliming, hearing the waterfall ahead, somewhere; rainbows alight in the branches and sing of the nether and the future, the lotus universe. your mind pours from your nose, like paint. you fall headfirst, choking into the dirt and swargle out into a thousand earthworms, much happier.

do you know what i mean?

okay, forget reiki. what about the effect emotions have on your body? they heat your organs, or freeze them. its like lightning made of glass flies through your veins when excitement or fear first break upon you. what is that? thats trans-organal, meaning you feel a geometric shape in your body that spans unrelated organs, like the long curved kniferibbon that feels next to the left side of my spine, blade first. fear is felt in the stomach, stress in the brain, or the stomach, responsibility is held in the shoudlers. such is the poetic nature of the universe; if you symbolically build a body to hold different emotions, you would accurately re-build the human energy body and its emotional architecture.

you don’t need believe the apocryphal forest magic of tarot card readings and sun scorpios and moon libras to feel the energy of your emotions. that is a deeper reality of a human being, that energy body is more you than your physical body. a human being is an emotional being, and a musical being, not so much a physical being. like a cello is made out of dead tree and intestine string, but what it is really an instrument of infinite sound; a musical being, like you.

we are dead tree and intestine, but we contain the soul and energy of the universe, unkillable invincible. the form fears for its survival, the form fears pain, but the universe herself — yourself — is not bothered by such things. covered in blood and torture, skeletal and humiliated, laughing hysterically and in love, for #she is beyond death and self! thus her laughter resounds beyond the expanding circle of the universe and mocks the seriosity with which we take this dream-reality.

the glistening rainfragrance on a dying nightflower is as sweet as the freshness unfurling forth from the yellow sproutling. for all flowers are dying. all beings are dying, are they not? except #her, of course. and you.

black and yellow striped mermaids with their dragon-champions and bad attitudes teem the magma-lit sea, consulting the oracle coral between the blood-colored waves and darkness. a huge gibbering pink disgusting brainy-thing, bloodthirsty, thousands of years old. the Coracle, powered by mermaid child sacrifice.

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