New Life, Protective Shadow, and RIP to my friend Sheila

I love you my friend

I’m starting to feel an emergence of new life after a long journey through the Underworld. I saw ghosts and demons, real life monsters in mirrors. I faced self-hatred and pity, shame and selfishness, the most disgusting parts of me. I paid my karmic debt for years of toxic positivity with inevitable passage through the darker realms.

I have gained much through the Temperance of the Middle Way.

Today was especially difficult. I finally went back onto Instagram and found a message from a friend whom had been looking for me. I was also trying to get a hold of her, but lost her number. She passed away and no one had anyway of telling me because I was hiding in my cell. I realized then that my hermetic comfort cost me far more than I’d anticipated.

I was hiding because I’d been hurt by a sorceress, someone who was supposed to be my teacher and mentor. She had hurt so many people in such profound ways, someone had to stand up to her. So I did. As you can imagine, it didn’t turn out well for me. Yet I do not regret my words or actions.

I hid from her as I felt a curse fall like a blanket of smoke over a crowd of young souls. It had happened before in another life, and yet I made the same mistake of running and hiding. It seemed the wisest thing to do, because the truth is, I was in over my head. I didn’t know how to protect myself from such a powerful being.

With great grief in my heart I can see that in my crystal cave I hid from the ones who loved me. I cut out good people for the sake of one. I abandoned a friend without so much of a word of explanation.

I’m so sorry, Sheila. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry for not being a better friend. God rest your soul.

It was more than that.

I used to spill my guts all over the screen, but now days, I have a Scorpion wife whose privacy is her safe space, and I have vowed to protect that space. Let’s just say that marriage is hard work. I was a fool to think otherwise. My other half is a constant reminder that I myself am not a perfect being, and to love my shadow is the single most greatest challenge of this world, and also the key to a more Divine Union with my wife.

After a long day of seemingly fruitless emotional toil, I sat in the bathtub where I usually baptize myself in the womb of the Divine Mother. Here I cried tears of frustration, of long-suffering, and of being oh-so-fucking-done with the way that I’d been living –the life of a child, ever-expectant, naive and dependent. Angry and entitled.

It is the moment of Death, the Ten of Swords, that I declared that I could not go on like that anymore. I opened my heart and allowed it all to come to the surface, to be seen by the Ones who guide me, heal me, Love me. Then, I laid down and slept for two hours.

I’ve come to accept that growth is a vital part of my life. Without growth there is no survival. Without healing there’s no point in living. I welcome growth, and all the pains that one finds along this sacred road.

Now, I feel lighter. I’m reclaiming the parts of me that were lost to the sorceress, the parts that protected me with tough skin, a chin held high even though I was dying inside. You see, it’s not healthy to destroy all your personas and defense mechanisms. We have them for a reason.Without my defenses, I was vulnerable to abuse, not just by her, but by people in power in different aspects of my life.

My wounds were on display for any predator to see, as through her training, I adopted the demeanor of a lame deer, just waiting to become some lioness’ prey. I’d lost the survival instincts that I needed to show the world that I was not someone to fuck with. I became a fucking Care Bear, which is fine, but there are times when we need to bare our fangs for the sake of survival.

So, of course, this lame deer found a place to hide.

Back then, it was all a lie. Since the 8th grade, I learned that if you pretend you’re not afraid, no one will fuck with you. If they do, and you can hold your poker face, they’ll stop fucking with you. Sometimes you have to fight, but then they will know.

I’m no one to fuck with.

It’s not a lie anymore. I don’t have to pretend I’m not afraid. I have roots that ground me, integrity that centers me, and an open heart that guides the way. I don’t bother with small-minded haters, and I send grace to anyone who might consider themselves my enemy. Yet I can bare my fangs and I will fight if I have to.

So, here I am. No longer hiding. No longer afraid of rejection. No longer tailoring my words for acceptance and understanding. I feel stronger than I have in a long time.

I’ve come full circle, it seems. A four-year cycle is finally ending, and I can’t believe that I’ve made it this far. I’m so grateful.

To anyone reading this, I pray blessings of peace, clarity, and overwhelming abundance.

Good night. ❤

The Concept of Identity

The false-self is a mosaic of reflections of social expectations, met and unmet, manifested and embodied like body-theiving spirits, like stereotype and research bias.

We affirm our imagination with magic wands and pixie dust, belief systems that conform to meet our social needs. Group think is psychological democracy, and I am still the minority.

This is not an argument against the validity of demographic identity.

Whomever you are, however you identify, you are valid. Your identity is valid.

This is less about identity and more about True Self, the nature of the soul.

Who am I?

“Sacred Journey” by Michael Reeder

I’ve spent my whole life shape-shifting into the ever-changing illusions and shadows of the person standing in front of me. It was once a survival skill, to shrink my truth and behave exactly as expected, to run and hide from the pyre of too-much-otherness.

I’d been fragmenting myself,  creating energetic templates, modeled after the safe standard, like prosthetic dicks and theatre masks, handy in my apron pocket. I’ve collected quite a few.

Not to mention my own projections, mistaking me for you.

But they only lasted as long as my fuse, short or long-suffered, ego death is inevitable.

The social constructs of identity: gender, race, political affiliation, class, religion, nationality, etc. They may signal silhouettes, but cannot define the soul, which live eternally outside these tiny but amusing, jack-in-the-boxes.

The problem with psychological democracy is that people are generally stupid. Most would rather follow the crowd than accept the responsibility required to lead oneself.

To think, all is Mind.

If we unravel the webs of the outdated roles we cast for ourselves and others, and recalibrate our sense of identity, what would we choose as our foundation?

To begin, the roots of our soul’s past, our ancestor’s stories, they are mythologies’ secret guides, mapped out over the night sky.

It’s true that we don’t know where we are going unless we know where we’ve been.

I remember where I’ve been.

I’d been beckoned to the dark side.

They told me I needed to see the things that happened in the shadow realm, to watch the night goblins feed.

Abuela, she insisted I bear witness.

I was disturbed, yet lucid.

The Demon, she said, “Never forget what you witnessed here.”

While the Angel, she said,

“Remember your Truth.”

It took years to realize that they gave the same advice.

To hold opposing polarities. To balance and harmonize. To walk in both worlds.

Okay, okay, I get it. I’ve seen a few monsters. You’re saying my identity is a vampire slayer? Demon killer?

You’re still thinking of identity in terms of vocation. Why are you in a rush to summarize?

It’s late. I’m exhausted.

Alright then. I’ll just say it.

If your identity is tied to a career, social construct, or role that allows others to recognize “who you are,” then your identity is subject to the expectations placed on you by that society, as you will repress the parts that do not meet those standards. Everyone does this to an extent. It’s the nature of social creatures.

But if your identity is based on the embodiment of your highest values and the acceptance of your flaws, you won’t carry the weight of social expectations. You are free to be who you are, to express your otherness, and to learn from your mistakes.

Okay. My identity is based on growth, integrity, and freedom.

Hold that in your heart.

I will.

And your flaws?

I’m working on patience, stillness, and receptivity, as I accept where I am today.

Buenas, Mijo. Now go to sleep.

The JOKER: How to Collapse the Wave Function

This image belongs to DC.

When the fear of death subsided, the tension in my body melted.

The multiverse spun around me, as if I was in the center of some cosmic clock.

I saw pieces of me in parallel worlds.

The Joker’s disfigured face twisted into a scarred smile.

His pain was potential violence at rest, a merciless volcano awaiting release.

A rot wilier howled with great fear.

The old ladies didn’t know what to do.

The Archetype lived in a parallel world, yet also in here, my fragmented spirits.

If I am to become the most optimal version of myself, the superposition must collapse.

To collapse the wave function, the shadows must be reintegrated.

As within, so without.

The Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram.

I touched the Joker’s disfigured face. Only I could see the depth of his pain.

“I know why you take innocent life,” I said. “I understand you.”

Lava erupted from his white eyes, kinetic violence in action, but he could not touch me.

For I was an invisible spirit, his higher self.

Then he collapsed on the floor, his body contorting. He was foaming at the mouth.

He telepathed images of the darkside, disturbing hence silent.

As he writhed in my arms, choking on his own tongue.

“I know, Brother.” I said. “I know.

“Thank you for holding my pain, you beautiful soul.

“It’s time to come home.”

Then the blinding white light came from all around.

As Angels appeared to harmonize his song.

The demons fled his body as it dissolved into white ash.

Oh, and the ladies called the police.

No, the ambulance.

The howling turned to whining as I whispered, “it’s okay to die.”

And in a moment it was done.

The ashes gone, a new body appeared.

It was mine.

The world will celebrate the Joker’s death.

Who am I

becoming?

The Night My Shadow Came Home

Photo credit: Umberto Shaw

I remember how he used to visit me everynight, holding me in the dark, a cold pistol to my temple.

The rage and pain rocked me like a crack baby, while I spat prayers of peace and silence between the waves of grief and coughing snot.

I’d come to depend on the pain he brought me. I appreciated his loyalty.

How long had I been trapped in that prison?

Between my thoughts, in every silent moment, where the mystics sought Nirvana, I found only Hell.

Of course, I left this world. I escaped this body. Why remain in this tortured state when psychosis is free medicine? And oh, the realms I’ve explored.

But that’s another story.

During the day, I felt the shadow stalking behind, whispering of failure and worthlessness. His pistol to my head, threatening my life with his hatred. After so many decades, I’d come to believe his lies.

I remember the moments he stole, like the time my parents remembered my birthday, and as everyone sang Happy Birthday to me, he whispered of disgust and shame.

Or when I almost had a good time at that party with some people I didn’t know, he took hold of me in front of everyone, called me a worthless slut.

From then on I was the “psycho worthless slut.”

And despite how much he couldn’t stand me, he came, night after night, with the barrel of his pistol to my head.

Why not pull the trigger already?

Then something changed. Over the course of 20 years, or so.

I was sitting up in bed, listening to the silence between my thoughts and realized that I was not in Hell. I remembered from whence I came.

As every person I ever hurt, and all of whom have hurt me, came before me carrying a black box. I opened my heart and offered them Love.

One by one, I retrieved my soul and reclaimed by peace, turning enemies into relations. Until he came forward.

His face hidden behind his pistol, his heart behind the words, “I hate you.”

His arm, grotesque with muscle, bulged out of his torn shirt.

While the skinny left arm hung useless, an impotent worm.

I stood, an epiphany opening like a rose bud on a frosty morning, and went to him.

“I remember you, Brother. I know why you hold your weapon out like so. I know why you’re here. Do you remember?”

He shoved his gun in my face, pressing the cold barrel to my head. “To kill you. I hate you.”

The stench of rotting corpses spewed from his mouth, the sewage of his heart.

In the past, I believed him. But now…

I nodded. “Yes. Should I have taken a dark path, should I have been a danger to the people I love, should I have failed at my mission, it was your job to kill me, to spare my soul the burdens of evil. It was me who gave you this task.”

His scowled face melted in understanding, while his tears fell down my cheeks. I reached out to take the weapon from him, but changed my mind.

“You did your job well, Shadow. My soul belongs to me and my body is safe, thanks to your vigilance. I have a new job for you now. Keep the weapon concealed.”

Shadow lowered his arm, and I saw his face for the first time. He was just a boy in need of a bath. “I did good?”

I nodded, “You did good.”

He smirked. “I can eat? I can sleep now?”

“Of course.”

So the Shadow took refuge in the center of my heart, while the others watched and began to ask, “What about me? I can eat now? I can sleep?”

Just Another Midnight Soul Retrieval

I left my soul down on the bottom rung of the social ladder, burned in wood, a troll’s toll.

The desert mirage no longer glitters like gold.

The palace is but a haunted mansion of putrescent corpses and tormented souls.

How long have I journeyed down this dark path?

All this upward motion led to downward spirals for backward people running from their own shadows.

The premise of our religion is the reason for proposed extinction. Is there not a human alive who doesn’t believe we don’t all deserve to die?

And every rung thereafter reaffirmed self-loathing for the delusion of perfection, for false security, for the American nightmare.

Even as I rejected promises of fame and fortune, for the price of my soul, I chose to climb.

“Little child, striving for the top bunk, you were never an angel, and that’s okay.”

To hell with the ladder. This false ascension has exhausted me.

Dismantle the mechanisms that would motivate me toward that zombie wasteland.

Allow the pain body to step into the light and, dammit, find the strength to look it in the eye.

And breathe….

Keep breathing….

“Little child, don’t you know that love cannot be earned?

You’ve lost your religion, but you still bear the scars on your hands from when they nailed you to the cross.

If they don’t love you now, they will never truly love you, and that’s okay.

It’s okay even when it’s not.”

I found my soul where I left it, on my bedroom floor, where there was

once a wooden ladder.

In the 2nd grade, the night I considered

the question, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I don’t “want to be,” I am.

I am.

This is good

enough for me.

–Kaika ❤