Where the wild things wanderlust

Wild thing, you make my heart sing / You make everything groovy, wild thing / Wild thing, I think I love you / But I wanna know for sure / Come on and hold me tight

I am alive. I am buried beneath this mountain of awareness coupled with a sense of responsibility.

I am completely powerless as I radiate my light in all directions, I feel it all. I am so overwhelmed with emotion, I cannot possibly know where to begin.

So I do not.

I just breathe in, and then breathe out. Focus on not falling apart. That’s the extent of my mental powers – attempting to keep it together, for I was always to be an example for mankind.

Young child, don’t cry. I’ll be right there to catch you if ever you fall. Listen, they can whisper in the wind and say the things you want to hear…

Closer. Lean over the ledge a little bit further now. Purpose. Beauty. Coffee with a hint of chicanery.

They are playful, inane and gauche. They concede to all your thoughts, they tickle your numinous noodle. What the heck was that? No. Numb. Dumb. Don’t be a dick. Don’t ruin this.

Ordinary. Real. Authentic. You are mesmerised, open arms yearning to be united with them. Sink into their sweet seduction, you feel a king.

Wild thing, why don’t you get that sharp thing? We can cut it. So it won’t bother anybody again. Teach them you’re filthy for being complete and made of flesh. If we snip and clip and cut away an essential part of yourself, you’ll get to stay and never go away.

Sink incomplete to the bottom of the sea with me.

All societies are complete. Separate. Different ideas about the illuminated life. Who is right and who must die?

Who gets to decide whose light should illuminate our lives? When it comes to navigating the path of the sole, your eyes to the sky may guide your vision but the way is made by hands walking the mundane.

Muscles, tendons, labourers, generators, machinations, motorised mechanics eye sinew. Do the turning cogs of your cognition know of their imprisonment? Or is it enslavement? The delineation between common crime and conquest.

Liminal academia as luminous ataraxia.

  • the blinding bright sun,
  • the shadowy shimmer of the celestial night,
  • the flickering flames of the hearth, or
  • the silent bioluminescence found far beneath your reach.

There’s something strange about this giant peach, the fuzz, the colour a slapped then caressed cheek.

The rider gazes off into the unknown. The steed continues the journey without direction, the circular route spirals like tapestry threads. Familiar like the back of a hand.

Divergent eyes peer through glass, an outstretched hand reaching into the void. The Aventine Triad beckons you forth. I am one imperfect Circe of 3 Libras.

Demeter, Dionysus and Persephone. Ceres, Liber and Libera.

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