Allow the nights intelligence to drift in and through your headdress, removing feathers that hold to much weight, moon whispers under spoke and wheel, lights gathering dust. Allow the days intelligence to break your slumber, sun scattering leaves, dreams piled to high upon your shoulders.
This is how we walk in and through the two towers, the darkness holds the candle as much as the light retains its shadow. It is in the space between that we may find truth.
Image by: Unknown
In other News today a incredibly cute kitten was born, Paws, it reached up and tore out the writhing heart of its owner, an innocent child lay dead. Born unto a world sick and transfixed by its own progress, as the human-animal that stood ever so tall, yet dared itself not to peer out over its own prison wall. Into that thinning periphery to see its world become an apparition of itself, as the dark tower crumbles without foundation. The next morning the dew returned and a flower arrived, with no man and no woman in sight to smell its appearance or gaze into its mystery. It continued its path to speak to the sun and speak to the moon, yet it always wondered what it would have been like to hear them speak in return.
Image by: Unknown Alchemist
Some say the worlds on fire, I say its been burning for sometime. Some say we must stay attached to the fetal monitors, I say sometimes enough is enough. Some say you must be involved in the many affairs of this world, I say to be in bed with one mistress is more than we can afford. As if before the daydream theaters were attached to our lungs we negotiated our terms with any better insights. To be of the space we are in, acknowledging a presence vaster than our own, to work within this caulk outline, this mortal hunting ground. To address all the things we would rather stay censored. As we extend our attenuated gaze at all the worlds problems, fear and worry become the thickening blood, as the feeding begins. Your own malevolent tumors are expanding. As you tend to that flicking flame of static, a warmth that never would come, the droning hum begets its lonely passengers at the centre of its passive controls. Its final directive is its capacity to pacify, to reflect back a version of life painfully edited and ended on a live stream, that everybody forgot to watch.
Image by: Unknown Alchemist
Rage. Rage, at the burning disc, the fire light, yet bow, bow to the soft, the reflective light of the moon.
Image by: Cody Cobb, Cascadia II
The mandala speaks through the trees, its transition is of our own, the burning heart of the sun. The great depth of being, the ascending spiral growths outward yet returns to the point of its beginning. To restore what was lost with what was gained. The mind is a microcosm, the body is the breath. Wherein all things alight, turning the mirrors of perception, bending the halls of time, to contruct the architecture of the dream.
– Josh Fleming