Once again I am pummeled by noisy invasion. Closer and closer it leers. Worse than recent memories that sit rigid in my body. Etching into head, heart, arms, face, it fills my throat with a peach stone of dread. An invasion on every level.
It reminds of a time in distant memory, trying to be good, trying to be ok. Being pushed, prodded, meeting harassment and judgement at every corner, every moment. Instruments of moulding taunting, teasing, aggressively pursuing my demise, with the lecherous appetite of a vulture circling spirits of the dead, or broken, or barely there.
Pushing and pushing, circling and preying. There’s nowhere left to hide. It doesn’t matter how deep I push myself into sharp corners, how miniscule I make myself, how quiet I am, how little space I take up. Even to dissolve so I can seep into the shadows and take up no light at all. How small and invisible can one possibly become? How deep do I have to dig to get some peace? Is it deeper than a grave?
Image by www.katiahonour.com
Speak not a word, utter no sound, shed not a breath, release no tear. Stay small and small and small and use all your might to hide and blend into the darkness. What is the safety there if the pursuers are darker than the black night itself? What if their darkness is so great it swells into a black hole and sucks you in whether you are visible or not? What if the blackness is so vast and malevolent it sucks the very ether out of your spirit. So, nothing can reside. Not even night, for it is so much darker than even that.
And then, I ask myself, from what is it you hide?
From myself. From the womb. From all that holds me to myself… as I was. I have no right to reside within myself. I can only live through like minds of others. And so, remain separate from myself, for hope in distance I may make some contribution.
Wretched glowing.
The price of love is that one can be seen.
Seen brightly.
When darkness falls on battered hearts it lays its depth in wander, daring and cajoling the beat beneath to continue in hiding until it mends its wounded holes.
Holes born into time. Holes bore into time. Wholeborn into time.
Tantric webs overflow with grief unless the darkness holds them in good stead. And thus from the sunken cold mass the nights collect all the rotten dreams and memories from their keepers and condense them into a mighty oil seam strewn thick and heavy through rock and soil. Ready to emerge in another time as a fossilised memory; come precious as a jewel by nought but gestation in its wake. Peace come now, gently, but firmly. Feel this rot. Feed this misery. And know the true blessings that it births are truer than the dark night in which you still dwell.
Stay true. Feel your true. Even when the world says it isn’t so, know it to be so. Your true.
Even in those darkest days count each bittersweet moment as another drop in the ocean that will feed your soul. And it is now, trust that, trust this, trust me, your golden dawn is coming, and swiftly so, be ready for flight.
Written by Tjoni Johansen
This article was published in n-Scribe magazine in 2015
Copyright 2016 all rights reserved
Please feel free to share amongst your networks in full including the authors name and this website address.
Please gain permission from the author before copying any part of this work.
If you are interested in having Tjoni Johansen write a personal dreamscape or myth for your self or a project please get in touch. tjoni@in-spiral.org .
Many thanks.