Prelude Experience disappears. My past: figments sifting the mind’s inside. I cannot set bearings. Sudden shifts dislodge me. Embers dim, now burn out. “Give me forgiveness.” Investigating my story so it can be recorded, filed away where no researcher is likely to dust it off. They will not pursue justice or help me get my life back, my identity, my life on the inside. I cannot rely on being...
I’ve found a muse: She has gone to such lengths to infiltrate, she is convinced that she can unravel me. I’ll endure it. She has something to teach, a message to deliver much bigger than herself. How do I know? I just know. Do I have proof? Your juvenile need of proof, again. She might end in killing me. Am I in another of my paranoid episodes? Absolutely.
In the bathroom, facing the mirror above the sink filled with cold water. She submerged her head beneath the water for long. She visioned again the vulture making its fame; having its fill on the backs of the starving. She did not allow her self to be swift enough; no instinct permitted to come through to prevent their terror. This was not the first time.
Because the light would aid your vision, I’d like to move further into it. How could I not catch you staring? You make no effort to disguise it. Yes it invades, but I am not threatened by it. Would it help to know what you are looking for? No, it is something you must do. I accept that. I do not need to read more into it.
That business with the girl still haunts me. We were too late to save her as I was saved. The complexities of the journey to the cellar containing her: it was my decision to detour.
His ideas seem too upfront and most of them naive; half conceived. Stating the obvious as though talking to juveniles.
How did he conclude he was the one to lead them. Did he believe that the otherness in him was what justified showing the people his better way. His move took courage. His inaction: well calculated.
I do not relish people flocking toward me. I enjoy a quiet life; disturbing no one unless they disturb me, as you have.
Their inclination led them somewhere close to destruction. They are now afraid of their own instinct; their passions. Afraid if they pursue what they have been enticed to love, it will ignite to explosive endings. All from their tendency to follow this one individual.
His speeches seem nothing more than bravado; talking up his predicament at the expense of those loyal to him. It is unclear what he thought he could gain by this. He told himself he would never be a man of the people: he double crossed them when it mattered twice. These double crossings led to his ending, untimely, as if cheated in return. He would not concede this, though we debated for hours. If...
The shadow there parading itself as king, reshaping your perspective on him. His stories leading you to dance, carries you on regardless; entranced.
His remarks made from day one to the end of his life were consistent. Only your perception of what he said changed. No evidence proved him a deceiver, though his heart counted on your self deception.
He destroyed arbitrarily, and did not realise any one was taking note. He dismissed the claim that reckoning could come, any day, altering the rest of his life irreversibly -but you are not to dwell on this.
You would not go against your instincts. You made me feel disposable. You became unstoppable. So I dispose of you myself.
I am too close to this hollowed man, his undeveloped heart. The undertones get the innocent always. Violent unease when he does not get the answer he’s been pushing for. My frailty shows. Spiritual crimes unseen engendering doubt, disbelief, in those, like me, who see.
Where did it change, where did it go to, why did it come to this end? Did they influence its outcome from the beginning? Unable to keep time with the chiming inside, I’m unbelieving and tired.
I hear you are well trained to recover after severe disappointment. You will need to live up to this reputation. Tell me how you intend to mend yourself. I warn you, do not mistake death, again, for relief, in place of belief.
He warned that I should not throw my conscious self away to accommodate regret. He has challenged me to not humour my own deliberations, that in time I will learn mercilessness has its value, that often it saves lives. He left, not allowing me space to clarify whether he meant physical lives, spiritual lives, or both, or perhaps neither.
I am to deliver a direct attack to the core of him. I have got to get it right, because to aim, miss, re-aim and fire again will bring him fatal pain without death to end it. This will bring fatal pain with death to end me.
There is only one way to grow stronger and that is to grow stronger. To be injured and then heal. To know of the dangers and strengthen yourself against the eventualities. Massive challenges to focus his massive energies.
He untied himself. Hunted down the key, trusted in its non-existence. He found the key. Faithful it would not fit, he tried the lock, the door loosened, stood ajar. He would not step through the frame. Stillness, inaction, unpenetrated silence. He scampered through the doorway. His presence, his breathing his fumbling footsteps: he heard nothing else.
Fortunately they blame my sophistry on their own confusion. My memories with their memories blur. I struggle to retain my boundaries, though I gain strength from fuelling their delusions.
When an angel falls in love, he over reaches. He will take on forces above his station. His order was to not cross the line of sexual pleasure between angel and human as this will lead to destruction of the angel ending in spiritual death of the human. Having transgressed and survived, bringing no harm to the human, you see why this conflict has arisen.
I love your arrogance, and how you struggle to mask it. The way you don’t listen. You really do know better; something in you does. Struggle against me. Push my spirit from you. Let my will run stray. I count on this. Your deep knowledge cannot be accessed; cannot be stolen; remaining glorious; inimitable.
You need your belief and the ability to believe, and the one you love. Don’t look at me so strange, love is the source of it. You have only negative experiences of love? There is no such thing. The source exists somewhere in your life. I have told you enough. Go to the source and find out.
Your sadness? It’s hard for me: you really are the sweetest thing - if you didn’t have that streak in you. Perhaps there is room for redemption. I don’t know. It’s fruitless you calling me evil. You’re out of your depth. Admit it.
He broke himself. He saw limits and pushed across them. Would love betray or light the way to show him out? Pounding the walls, shaking the pillars of heaven. Ready to be born, yet again. Needing space for spirit to run free. Needing space to run.
If you can walk away from this I’d be surprised; it has been done before; perhaps your will is strong enough. Those capable of breaking the code or finding it very rarely get fooled this far. It seems you have a deep desire to please and impress me. I am fascinated. Most of what I have told you are lies yet you lack doubt.
He keeps her at bay and then lets her in. He considers himself blameless. She ventured to enter against his wishes and against the odds. His role is to facilitate her. Her fate is her responsibility. I am in agreement.
Sleep; the face was gaunt. On waking, energy in his eyes, a centre to his soul. This went on until his memories signed life.
Who can stop me telling myself “patience”. You refuse wings. I feel your resistance, your fear of falling from safe perch through this. Faith returns with personal risk.
Found at the side of the road; brought to the door of the house. The good Samaritan. A sack of money, a fresh sack, contrasted the filth on his skin and clothes. Debate as to whether he should be taken in. Allowed to stay: expected to be dead soon. An emaciated man coiling round death. The money was not considered for anything other than his burial.
they do not need to play games they do not need to wash your brain they do not need you to follow they do not ask for what they should not from you they guard your heart from a distance with them you never feel left
It’s not that I have too much of my own way, I make my own way, in spite of what you put in my way. And naturally you think you can kill me. Kill my body yes. I will not forget if you leave me to die.
You know who I am. You know why you’re here. I am tired and hungry. Make yourself comfortable.
Making me run after you? I will loose interest. It will most likely be at a critical stage for you; that way you break your own heart. Starving my spirit does not work to kill it. You will try and then try too hard. By then I would have moved on.
my world, if I had to describe it, is spherical. why spherical, why not round? you ask me to describe my life and I have given a definition. are you unable to proceed without preferred definitions? why not use your intuition with a...
It’s not unusual to feel like, as you put it, a collection of copies, of copies, obscuring originals. Obscuring your original and when I’m with you, my own.
Hiding fragments would not save his life, but he believed this and we made the decision to leave him with at least this one belief. To dispossess him of this, we decided, after voting, verged on the sacrilegious.
These people knew more advanced ways of corrupting my spirit. Admiration flowed from me toward them. Bemused, I prayed, for the protection, for the close proximity of a kind loving gentle intelligent spirit, to find my way back to, should I need to lay my own down beside.
He overstepped the mark, last week, when he was discovered attempting to play God. His excuse was that he felt he had to be seen to.
Entering the mind of another has this one deficit: I must remain with them their entire life, cataloguing their range of experience, neglecting my own. Unless I choose to disclose this, they do not know the depth of my involvement.
When he mends prematurely, break him again. Continue until he learns to let go of what could kill us all. Burn his fingers, blister them, make them bleed if they won’t let go. Show his frailty to him; how quickly infestation spreads. Undermine the impressions in his mind. Make him react. Make him give what we want from him back. If he continues to cage his soul, he will not be allowed to keep it.
He left pieces of his thoughts and some elements from his soul sprawled on paper. He stuck these in hidden crevices, anywhere he chose. He would use them to retrieve what, in time, he accepted, would be stolen from him.
confusion of visionary forms swarm round your head born of the dreams you wake when you slip into my skin to sleep. note how the swarming increases when you steal my tears to weep
She lived, for decades, in the comfort of unchallenged access to hidden truth. One afternoon, a year ago, without pre-signals, her spiritual wiring short circuited, causing her life force and all connected to her, to random spill. The spillage extended beyond her sphere of manoeuvrability. For fear of provoking further spillage she left, uninvestigated how her circuits were accessed.
He watched his captor disappear; he eavesdropped on the door locking from outside; counted footsteps echoing; waited until silence was detected; disbelieved his luck; expected any sound, advancing footsteps, every second.
Wisdom: On the eve of the threatening eclipse of your soul, stand still, endure, remain superficial; cut off, shut down, refuse to total recall. Forget to shift your shape too well. Breathe steady if inspired to draw blood from a stone; do not breathe too loud or too low. Above all and beneath do not make tiny cracks bigger. A fissure through your life line converts to fatal puncture if you...
Play the games you’re forced to play against your natural grain. Stay the want to riddle to death the next septic immoralist you trip on. Leave intact his urge to find and swing on the thing he will hang himself from. And do not lift his painted veil: the carnage behind the left hollow ribcage you find will revolt and sound you far out of sync with things of God and your mind.