Shadows and Light
I find myself embraced tenderly by vivid, anarchic and fervent thoughts, encapsulated in spaces with beautiful shadows, eccentric shapes and sacred labyrinths. A secret knowledge simmers softly, brewed by revelations and tragedy, delivering the channels by which delusions and reality could be translated and divided. With cloaked, obstinate mirages accentuated, and then abandoned, what remains before me is a reflection of my true self. She is sagacity and clemency, impulsion and passion, creation and elucidation, influence and intimacy, curiosity and intricacy, ripened amidst the mortal trinity of the past, the present, and the future. A most endearing and revealing journey this will continue to be, as long as I truly choose to see. And sometimes we find that the first step is speaking our mind, and not always hide what ails us- for it is only when we know the name of our illness, that we can find the cure. And shudder not at the thought of speaking- you will not be hated, but instead revered for facing the things that bore allegories indeed, and long tore you to sing in tears. And prolonged symptoms cannot themselves be gone- So how can it be wrong to voice your vices and concerns in kind, but aggressive ways, if the ultimate intention is to expand oneself for wiser ends? The key is to gracefully move, but proactively mend.
When it comes to the past, there is amnesia, euphoria, breakdowns, and epiphanies all tied up into one pedagogic fusion. We pluck the roses, and burn the gardens--with thorns removed and gash forgotten, rebuild new grounds on which to flourish. Some we keep, some do stray, some we forcefully put away. And venoms can not lengthy stay, so hush all toxins til they fade. For whence a grain of truth is laid, enlightenment is oft arrayed. And for the days that lie ahead, we strive to design a fortress of unconditional love and guidance for the ones who surround us-- And absolute love does not entitle the bearer to abuse or to be the abused, to ravage or to be ravaged, but instead they have the right to an understanding that they may attain love, but at times be gently kept at arms length if they exploit the terms of use. And pillaging devotion's muse is a hostile thing to do. My love can be shrouded or bestowed when I choose, and is implemented with a hope that we rise upwards in spiritual and intellectual ways while we do affection consume. And amidst this lit fuse, I get caught in a startling whirl wind of restoration, where compassion, wisdom and truth reign as the quintessential elements. Compassion is the giving touch. Wisdom is intuition from God. And truth- truth is accepting who we are, being able to stare at the one who stands in the mirror now- an effervescent, anomalous fountain of sweet insurgence, vagrancy, and comprehension- self replenishing, distilling countless former addictions, inflictions and indulgences, yet still finding the means to satiate the innate need. A charming vision with reality's seed, but more aware of looming threats to her sanctity-- I am learning to dispel the myth of me.
Woe to one's mislaid philosophies- For chastity is more than the mind perceives. Is not her sweeping long hair a prelude to where she was, and how she grows free? The remnants of counterfeit shades- red, brown and gold- have dwindled past her back and down to the very last ends. And instead, there extends the natural midnight black, stark naked in thought and no pretence. I am who I am- vehement lightning flowing through innocence, dark eyes glowing, knowing that her transient nature makes her the intricate creature that she is, and that life is the ever altering glass that breaks and remakes itself. And to those who got cut along the way by pieces that fell, jagged shrapnel, hysteric stabs of fallacy's knife, I was forlorn and oblivious- and I apologize. We have all once stood here, blood spilled, but as we wipe down and wash away what we can and will, we remain aware of the stitches, and thankful for wounds that taught us what life is. There is no image of perfection except God. We are broken pieces making a whole, but nevertheless beautiful, like stained glass, cracked, exclusive, sacred, and colorful--we are forever in a cyclical renaissance.
My present is a blessing-- filled with expectations, queries, tranquilities, mysteries, wonders and lessons. Some sanctions are hidden to the touch and sight, yet they are the ones that are tri-fold and flowing beyond our cup. Like every mortal, I encounter my daily challenges and tests. And I truly believe that my tests are very small ones in comparison to the world and its suffering. The beauty of each test, discomfort or hurdle, is that in the process of experiencing them, we somehow find the name of God escaping our mouths. We yearn for Him. We require Him. We realize how merciful is our Lord, who lets us remember Him without thought. And we need to continually turn to Him, akin to how dark turns to daybreak and back to night, infinite times- for humans are often at harmony, and habitually in strife. And when we finally find the wound, we cannot cover it with bandages of falsehood and fear, but instead find ways to crawl forward to the paths of resolutions, answers, medicines that work to heal what we have disparaged by our own hands and an idealistic blindness. The medicine to healing is to accept that I am frail and strong, lucid and complex, but entering a place that is full of hope. I am loved, by myself and by others. But I am not as naive as before, for I understand that there will always be questions and falls, resurrections and breakdowns, movements and consequences, just so we can awake once again like a phoenix strong. And together, we cope and regain our spiritual youth through reckless times and energy renewed. For if the truth did not embrace us, what would we do?
By the processes of repentance, recollection and veracity, I find myself almost at the nucleus of a tornado- But not how you may behold the center of this tempest. I am, God willing, at the true crux of any chaos- where it is most quiet- where it is most controlled. Here from the inner core, I can see the outside of the tornado- of it's power and it's influences- the destructions, the rage, the seclusion, the hypocrites, the intertwining intellects, the dreams and nightmares of bitter sweet reflections, the beauties of days long gone, and the rogues that once haunted my sanctuary. But within these furiously rampaging winds, there is also promise, penance, perils and promethean pondering. I see confusions diffusing amidst knowledge of human err and understanding, and answers that lay in my palm, white roses with dismembered thorns, leading towards a more fragrant road- yet still brindled with the inquisitions of rights and wrongs.
But to reach this plateau, dare I say- never stand arrogant and intentional in the eye of storms. When winds can rip gracious lands apart, do you think you would be spared its violent tendencies? Envision fragile shattered fragments, scattered across, suspended mid air, moving fiercely like hawks piercing a dawn lit sky. In a fit of quixotic defiance, I once tore myself into a trillion scraps of tiny debris, and it seemed almost irretrievable. Still, one by one, day by day, I conceive of ways to pick precious pieces, and bring them back in me-- to a blood stream of reverie and self reprieve.
And where I am now, at this dominion of catechism and nostrum, a captivating cathartic breakdown of sorts- I am able to extend my hand outwards, look at what has broken, grieve for it, and finally attempt to heal it. I pray that I am granted wisdom to walk towards faith, forgiveness and fulfillment, and to embrace an obligation of eluding poisons. And should we not surround our life by reasoned guidance, where we are ushered towards seasoned choices? Still, we are human, and suseptible to both good and sin. But what we swallow is what's found within. So tread not on bombshells , if you are not fond of battles. And fragrance of jasmine wafts only from meadows. So I accept you, my faults. I accept you, my virtue. I accept you, my afflictions. I accept you, my heart. I accept you, my shadows. Because at the core of my chaos - was always a chance at mercy and forgiveness... Because in every entity is the need for life... Because where there are shadows, you will always find light...
When it comes to the past, there is amnesia, euphoria, breakdowns, and epiphanies all tied up into one pedagogic fusion. We pluck the roses, and burn the gardens--with thorns removed and gash forgotten, rebuild new grounds on which to flourish. Some we keep, some do stray, some we forcefully put away. And venoms can not lengthy stay, so hush all toxins til they fade. For whence a grain of truth is laid, enlightenment is oft arrayed. And for the days that lie ahead, we strive to design a fortress of unconditional love and guidance for the ones who surround us-- And absolute love does not entitle the bearer to abuse or to be the abused, to ravage or to be ravaged, but instead they have the right to an understanding that they may attain love, but at times be gently kept at arms length if they exploit the terms of use. And pillaging devotion's muse is a hostile thing to do. My love can be shrouded or bestowed when I choose, and is implemented with a hope that we rise upwards in spiritual and intellectual ways while we do affection consume. And amidst this lit fuse, I get caught in a startling whirl wind of restoration, where compassion, wisdom and truth reign as the quintessential elements. Compassion is the giving touch. Wisdom is intuition from God. And truth- truth is accepting who we are, being able to stare at the one who stands in the mirror now- an effervescent, anomalous fountain of sweet insurgence, vagrancy, and comprehension- self replenishing, distilling countless former addictions, inflictions and indulgences, yet still finding the means to satiate the innate need. A charming vision with reality's seed, but more aware of looming threats to her sanctity-- I am learning to dispel the myth of me.
Woe to one's mislaid philosophies- For chastity is more than the mind perceives. Is not her sweeping long hair a prelude to where she was, and how she grows free? The remnants of counterfeit shades- red, brown and gold- have dwindled past her back and down to the very last ends. And instead, there extends the natural midnight black, stark naked in thought and no pretence. I am who I am- vehement lightning flowing through innocence, dark eyes glowing, knowing that her transient nature makes her the intricate creature that she is, and that life is the ever altering glass that breaks and remakes itself. And to those who got cut along the way by pieces that fell, jagged shrapnel, hysteric stabs of fallacy's knife, I was forlorn and oblivious- and I apologize. We have all once stood here, blood spilled, but as we wipe down and wash away what we can and will, we remain aware of the stitches, and thankful for wounds that taught us what life is. There is no image of perfection except God. We are broken pieces making a whole, but nevertheless beautiful, like stained glass, cracked, exclusive, sacred, and colorful--we are forever in a cyclical renaissance.
My present is a blessing-- filled with expectations, queries, tranquilities, mysteries, wonders and lessons. Some sanctions are hidden to the touch and sight, yet they are the ones that are tri-fold and flowing beyond our cup. Like every mortal, I encounter my daily challenges and tests. And I truly believe that my tests are very small ones in comparison to the world and its suffering. The beauty of each test, discomfort or hurdle, is that in the process of experiencing them, we somehow find the name of God escaping our mouths. We yearn for Him. We require Him. We realize how merciful is our Lord, who lets us remember Him without thought. And we need to continually turn to Him, akin to how dark turns to daybreak and back to night, infinite times- for humans are often at harmony, and habitually in strife. And when we finally find the wound, we cannot cover it with bandages of falsehood and fear, but instead find ways to crawl forward to the paths of resolutions, answers, medicines that work to heal what we have disparaged by our own hands and an idealistic blindness. The medicine to healing is to accept that I am frail and strong, lucid and complex, but entering a place that is full of hope. I am loved, by myself and by others. But I am not as naive as before, for I understand that there will always be questions and falls, resurrections and breakdowns, movements and consequences, just so we can awake once again like a phoenix strong. And together, we cope and regain our spiritual youth through reckless times and energy renewed. For if the truth did not embrace us, what would we do?
By the processes of repentance, recollection and veracity, I find myself almost at the nucleus of a tornado- But not how you may behold the center of this tempest. I am, God willing, at the true crux of any chaos- where it is most quiet- where it is most controlled. Here from the inner core, I can see the outside of the tornado- of it's power and it's influences- the destructions, the rage, the seclusion, the hypocrites, the intertwining intellects, the dreams and nightmares of bitter sweet reflections, the beauties of days long gone, and the rogues that once haunted my sanctuary. But within these furiously rampaging winds, there is also promise, penance, perils and promethean pondering. I see confusions diffusing amidst knowledge of human err and understanding, and answers that lay in my palm, white roses with dismembered thorns, leading towards a more fragrant road- yet still brindled with the inquisitions of rights and wrongs.
But to reach this plateau, dare I say- never stand arrogant and intentional in the eye of storms. When winds can rip gracious lands apart, do you think you would be spared its violent tendencies? Envision fragile shattered fragments, scattered across, suspended mid air, moving fiercely like hawks piercing a dawn lit sky. In a fit of quixotic defiance, I once tore myself into a trillion scraps of tiny debris, and it seemed almost irretrievable. Still, one by one, day by day, I conceive of ways to pick precious pieces, and bring them back in me-- to a blood stream of reverie and self reprieve.
And where I am now, at this dominion of catechism and nostrum, a captivating cathartic breakdown of sorts- I am able to extend my hand outwards, look at what has broken, grieve for it, and finally attempt to heal it. I pray that I am granted wisdom to walk towards faith, forgiveness and fulfillment, and to embrace an obligation of eluding poisons. And should we not surround our life by reasoned guidance, where we are ushered towards seasoned choices? Still, we are human, and suseptible to both good and sin. But what we swallow is what's found within. So tread not on bombshells , if you are not fond of battles. And fragrance of jasmine wafts only from meadows. So I accept you, my faults. I accept you, my virtue. I accept you, my afflictions. I accept you, my heart. I accept you, my shadows. Because at the core of my chaos - was always a chance at mercy and forgiveness... Because in every entity is the need for life... Because where there are shadows, you will always find light...
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