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13 September 2016 @ 08:16 pm
for i am already poured out like a libation  
brought to ruin: brought into memory: brought into the nightmare continuum of daily striving, daily failing, daily never quite enough: brought into being. pain's crowning glory. the crown of thorns that encircles every immaculate heart: by way of tradition: by means of necessity: and on like that: and on and on and on: held in the arms of love: grasped by the claws of pain: how it is: how it was:

:how it ever will be:


pain is the germinating necessity of love. love as an elemental force. love as a transforming reality. love as a difficult and occasionally (?) fatal initiation: love as a difficult and ultimately fatal initiation: those of us who could not come back from love: those of us who could not even survive our own love: you know the way of it, or you did, or you will and in this moment with this ring for so long as you both but that's not even the half of it, the kind of love that only lasts as long as you both shall live: kept in that box, and it does not have to be, but quite often it is: that's love as a human mechanism. love as a red ball bouncing in time over ideological assessments of the form and function love serves, not the earth shattering chaos love in itself actually is: not love itself: not love itself: so many of us never even have contact with what love, itself, actually is. not transformational love. not love that transforms. because transformational love, it does not move mountains.

it obliterates them.


such love does not waste its time sitting, head bowed, hands folded neatly, patient for evening vespers: such love twists the heads off the wicked and crushes their skulls in her mad dance. such love scorches the dead and corrupted into fertile ash. love is brutal, love is angry. love is fierce, love is belligerent. love never shuts up. love is beautiful, but not in the way you want it to be. so often we first see that which triggers out deepest love as ugly, at first: at least undesirable: at least disquieting. you have to do the work to see the beauty. you have to make yourself vulnerable to that head twisting, skull crushing, wildfire love and there are no guarantees. you'll see it, but only in flickers. you'll feel it, but only for one match's strike. at the heart. on the tongue. through the sacral center. sparking at the finger tips. you must build up your tolerance. you must keep taking risks. love can protect those who serve love, in a way, for a time, but then, but then. love serves her own understanding of justice. if one only wants the meek, user-friendly, maternal and nurturing good girlfriend of love, an easy marriage, a long and prosperous life, love has no use for you. never germinated, you'll rot away still inside your husk. love doesn't give a fuck that you believe it isn't time. ready or not, that's what love is:

ready or fucking not.


love is aggressive. love doesn't care how tired you are. how scared you are. how traumatized you are. how strong. how righteous. how virtuous. how talented. how stoned. how impatient. how smart. how healthy. how refined your media preferences. love is here. shut the fuck up and be grateful: that's literally all you can do. because: you do not cross love. do not piss love off. you are, ever always, love's miserable bitch until you are dead. or you are not. you try not to be. you rebel, you qualify, you discipline, you hold yourself back: you abandon love and end up, ever always, love's miserable bitch until you are dead. your choice.

how, love, how? how? how?


like that we are textbook examples, unwitting adherents to an exhausting mythology that loops back again to the start before you've come out the other side. like a public school american history class, you haven't even figured out who won the civil war when it's back to george washington not telling lies about the cherry tree from which he chopped his wooden teeth. if i got some of that wrong i apologize: it's from that class of stories you've heard so many times you stop hearing it, it ceases to exist, it's just this weird melange of psychological trinkets that populate a modern american childhood. frosty the red-nosed ugly duckling bringing offerings of frankincense and his last bread crust to the most sincere pumpkin patch. we love our most important stories into consumerism and humor tropes. because we all know these stories, or, at least, we think we do. we all know these stories, so we never really hear them: but sometimes, in spite of everything, something breaks through. we connect. we find something that speaks to us, to our experience, to the person we are or the person we were or the person we want to become. i could pour myself bare on the altar of love without a second thought. that's how a lot of us do it, after all: to be honest, a lack of larger considerations might be why any one of us takes a hit of that lethal stuff in the first place: we don't know any better. we set ourselves up for it: we thought we knew what we were getting ourselves into: we ended up with something else entirely: someone else entirely: entirely: entirely

oh.


 
 
music: dark muse - nile
 
 
 
growsgrows on September 15th, 2016 02:01 am (UTC)
❤️❤️ ❤️