Reality is not to be imagined.
It is imagination in itself.
Every author knows there is no basis for plot minus conflict.
The conflict of creation was nothingness.
Then nature exploded into spectrums of beauty and light.
Man’s conflict is survival; thus, he dies trying to live.
A lover’s conflict is isolation and sex is a portal to wholeness.
Tribe’s conflict is fitting in; protecting one’s own.
A leader’s conflict is his own insecurity: the need to control others.
Every artist creates from a vacuum:
a painter’s canvas is the hole in his soul,
pain is instrumental so a musician vibrates,
an actor reenacts his substitute life on stage,
a writer’s ink echoes the thirst of incessant questioning,
life is a parody to the “why” question.
I am a story untold.
I am a stream of consciousness.
I imagine my soul as a garden and every flower will either wither or bloom depending on how they react to my touch.
Who wants to be a god when being human is already ungodly for us?
I think what lack of complacency is trying to teach me, is to go out and explore the world, so I’m rolling my words as my sleeves and imagine and I sojourn as a careless thought.
See evil can be good if you change the intent, therefore my wording is a sigil to human trance-formation.
Remote-viewing my past lives in the rear view, it is a rare view of love and war.
Saturn and Satan exchange wedding rings every time fear crosses the cosmic path.
The sun spins the earth and other planets slip and slide to the groove. Ethereal symphony to the stars.
I have got angels auditioning for my role when the curtain closes.
When the credits roll up, I hope the catharsis of my existence will outlive the rock of ages.
Sharp as a split rock’s edge, I glisten like a Tibetan monk’s forehead, like crystal stones, I sparkle. I Tarot card poetry readings as an elixir to the soul.
My word is bond.
My world is born anew everytime I die.
I am a student of sacred geometry. I graduated from mystery schools.
(You will never figure me out.
Those who see my face die.)
I am karma to those who abuse the gift of love. Your pain is your pain, your pleasure is ours.
My ear drums oscillate to the drum beats of the streets.
When you see me, nod your head and stomp your feet.
I vomit forth my purple soul.
“Poor soul, you will never know anything of real importance. You will not uncover even one of life’s secrets. Although all religions promise paradise, take care to create your own paradise here and now on earth. ”
-Omar Khayyam (Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam)