In all of us exist a space where we wish to die. Within life’s celebration there is often a hideous quest for destruction. Perhaps these cycles continue to perpetuate as long as we refuse to embrace, that we are made of the dust held within the auric field of magic.
She walked in one day with a name that wasn’t her anymore. In a very subtle way she hinted, that it was up to me to tell her story, your story, my story, our story.
She was my teacher - she is my teacher.
She was my student - she still is.
The gaze from ones eyes always gives a hint to the star they hail from and I didn’t even need to look at her to know that she came from home.
She knows more than I ever will, though I dare remember what she fears to embrace.
Often I wonder, what it is in the human condition that makes us forget so quickly where we come from and the purpose of our visit to earth.
Somehow I suspect that someone figured out we would be easier controlled and managed if we abide in ignorance while remain addicted to our suffering.
She was an addict, of the worst kind – the one that is convinced that within her addiction lies the path to salvation.
She was beautiful, she is beautiful, though she manages to hide her beauty with the mask of never ending emotional abuse and denial.
She has the type of beauty that when it shines for a moment, the whole street would pause to take a glimpse of her towering magnificence.
Instead the people stopped and gazed at her festering sores, her rugged armour, that shielded her from the world and more so from the need to relate to it, in any meaningful way.
She said she was happy to be small and insignificant and every line on her face said she was lying. She was a good liar; it was her art and way of surviving.
We all lie to ourselves, all the time, for the other option petrifies us. And the price we have to pay once we stop lying to ourselves, is a price most of us are unwilling to fork out.
It’s strange though, since there is nothing we need to acquire in order to stop this lie. We just have to let go, drop all of it; all our past and garbage. All our agreements with the gods of insignificance. All our beliefs that we are victims to sets of circumstance.
She said she was sick of it, that the rock in her heart had a heavy weight to it and may soon bring her down.
That thing in her heart, that wall of shrapnel and nails was stoping her from living, she knew it and she didn’t know what to do about it.
She said she would touch but not embrace. She said she could embrace but not touch. She couldn’t afford to give herself to life. She had a long-standing agreement with her master called fear, a master she had to obey, for it’s all that she knew.
She wanted to fuck off this ruthless master though she was afraid of what lay beyond its clutches. It was unknown and she couldn’t risk going somewhere she didn’t feel safe in. She felt safe with fear, because this is what she knew. She felt sick of fear and it was slowly making her weaker.
She was a witch. She is a witch. She always knew it, though she was bred to not believe it.
I told her she was beautiful, she said I was blind.
I told her she was strong, she said I was stupid.
I told her she knew more than I ever will. She said I couldn’t see a thing.
She half smiles, half talks and half listens. Everything she does is cut in two. The one in her that wants to live and the one that has surrendered long ago to the idea that she never will.
Then one day, when she least expected it, a freedom feather came flying in through the narrow crack in her window.
She didn’t know what to do with it.
What she did know was; that soon a wind would come and blow that feather away.
Jaman Tree © 2010