Prayers

 

I need to learn, but one thing I trust in is that our intentions imprint in this world. I've prayed, transcendent delineating indication of the spirit through the dimensions of time & space into the universe. The waters of the soul reflecting back into the infinite through tears. In the darkness, I've prayed through the forces of death & life for her. Touching the oxygen of the beyond, tears into the transmundane infinite.

There's truth in the details of the light Paul of Tarsus saw on his trip, like trees in the desperate grasp for oxygen in the soul of a man trapped in the darkness. "Damascus" is being written into a song, it's about her. But despite the peaceful tranquility the man observed, that light is impossible to be as beautiful as her eyes in that Orlando park.

Indelible

I don't think a tree is deprived of the gift of producing a reverberation if it falls in the forest and there is no one around to hear its sound: this blog is a "fuck you" to transfigure throughout time & space. One's pure, divine spirit over the primitive law of "Thou Shalt", but deprived of intended transgression. It just is. I believe in God because I possess life. Until the transcendent destroys it, I hold power in lien. I think - & this is important. The decisions of our soul produce sound through the dimensions of totality, that scientific intonation that Einstein decreed, the musical harmony of the cosmos, & your will is the instrument of diction in this distinctive twilight of life & death. It is the tactile finger in the dying person demarcating the imprint of consciousness into this world, like a paintbrush. If physicality is impossible - the produced thought in your brain itself is the finger. It is indelible. It is published.

"To a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone: - greetings!" - Winston's Diary, 1984.

"Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery: But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart." - Matthew 6:2.

Our thoughts hold importance. This is the online journal of desisted thoughts resurrected like the inundation squall of a divine deluge. In your face.

The human species is quickly deteriorating into internecine hive minds, at the direction of oligarchical governments (in the truest sense of the word, not just border lines) through the internet. Political activism is the norm, with diligently controlled rivers of information. 

This is the impregnation of predecessor Theologians trying to shepherd our herd species into organized thought, throwing people into dithering fear if they deviate from their directed course. "#cancelculture" is just the instinctual impregnation. Information becoming disposable is the portent sign that technocracy decides what the truth is, but it's impossible to rescind truth. It occurred. It happened.

The truth just is.

I prayed - our intentions, thoughts produce sound throughout the dimensions of time & space, into the infinite beyond, despite the oceans of negation and blackness washing creation in the oceans of time like a deleted Google blog. It still existed, just like the blasphemy it is indelible. It is observed by the infinite.

The illusion that the diminutive individual is incapable of producing a sound is illuminated by the truth of the crucifixion, the image that the individual soul is apt to imprint indelible bullets of thought. The truth just is.

It produced an individual pure sound in the universe. If God doesn't like it, tell it "fuck you." This is the importance of the individual.

Winners Don't Shiver

I don’t deny I shiver. When the cold shower sprays down my neck, I turn the faucet over and increase the intensity of the cold temperature. It makes me feel awake. It’s like a thousand knives stabbing into my

body, and truly introduces meaning into the phrase “mind over body” and I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t still tied to the carnal, the part that seeks comfort & warmth. But I do it anyway.

Transcendence is a word that was introduced into my brain by the local black magician Diabolus Rex, magus of the Chaos Imperium. I never believed there was something “out there.” But in his interviews I’ve never been so thoroughly informed about the Left-Hand Path in a form that I instinctually understood through personal verification and plain understanding of what I’ve read. I think the inertia of sexuality determines spirituality, in the direction of this force. Dedicating your Qi to things beyond the flesh, brings brightness into your eyes in an unspeakable way. There are no words to describe this phenomena, it is beyond definition or mathematical calculation. The thing that is important to understand is that individual choices have importance.

I think it was Aleister Crowley who said that every act, intention, is a magical act.

Little by little, I turn the faucet a little bit colder. In these days I find cutting to be despicable, and I think physical fitness is the path to true development. Both methods are the same, accomplishing the purpose of catharsis by inflicting pain, but one will leave you weaker and the other stronger. There is the deepest level of respect for the U.S. Navy Seals in my soul, facing death in their training sessions. 

In the darkest dawn, turning in push-ups in the fierce dark beach finding strength through pain. Not to mention they are the first responders to an urgent “diplomatic” mission. Their brutality leaves them with the option to shiver internally only. It’s the desire to overcome and push beyond physical limitations to protect.

There’s pride in me sucking off strong men, but it is difficult quenching the thirst of obliterating the desolate and weak. The tearing of flesh, destroying skinny bones in desperate thirst to obliterate decadence

in the garden of Darwin and to continue the paint it has coated over the plants and nature. I’m desperate for competition, seeking those stronger than I am. In fact, I praise them. I thirst for the more intelligent, to be impacted and obtain virtue through force. To look into the eyes of a man better than me and force him to bow.

In the direction of this force, I’m desperate for competition. I seek those stronger than I am, in fact I praise them. The plants, the animals, that inner instinct that transcends and penetrates through the nothingness into a defined being.

I opened the shower curtain and looked directly into the mirror, and just like the instinct of a boy kissing a girl for the first time I unconsciously raised my arms like a dying corpse on a cross and insultingly looked into the mirror. It was blasphemous. This unholy frown was too intense to be incorrectly seen as the mocking & duplicitous smile it was intended to be; I became shocked.

This look looked scary but divine.

There’s something in it that was truly beautiful, but it felt like cutting into my own personal spirit. It felt wrong.

I felt it.

I’ve been numb to the presence of things in the beyond that I’ve felt cutting others, or following this philosophy, is the only path to being in touch with the divine. But I think instead of looking for this thing outside, I’m forced to admit that I shiver in the cold water. There’s soldiers that finish and pass their tests, but do not finish in perfection. I shiver. Just like push-up that is imperfect.

There’s always going to be limitations in life, this is the direct purpose under which you were designed for. It won’t ever happen - pushing beyond the divine, but I understand transgression. I’m not interested in doing that look in the mirror again. He was someone who understood that people fuck up on their test. It is intelligent to understand pain because injury differentiates from discernment. It’s direct perception that instructs, but it is subjective and inevitably you’re going to fuck up. There's objective judgement.

I shiver.

But I turn the cold water temperature colder, because I want to learn and go to church.

Haunted by the Light

 

Rebirth

"Most of us live our whole lives without any real adventure to call our own. Every passing minute is another chance to turn it all around. The fate of destruction is also the joy of rebirth."

It's time for a new chapter in my life.

Time to get to work.

Hawthorne (Flashforwards)

It occurred in my room back before my soul was tested. In those weeks, I was intrigued by the blonde shocks and lightning flashes of her lust-filled lips breathing, biting, and fucking my face and neck. In a block away from where I lived, I knew she was a trophy and in need to be utilized. That face wasn't being appreciated enough. In a flash, I gave her my number and took her soul from an inadequate mate.

But in the walk to my place, after many weeks (months?) of intense love and passion, it felt like an inevitable funeral that was meant to be a sign of respect for her. I was unable to love, but still did. It was more than lust, and it didn't need to grow beyond that, but it did. In those precious eyes, an innocent affection stared back at me and I couldn't deny the thrill of needing to protect her in a brutal display of truth.

"I can't love. Not right now." It hurt to display those words, but I remembered the tattoo on the back of my right arm, and the imperative need to do what is necessary. She burst into tears, and screamed in my face, as if this didn't hurt me more than her. I think she thought something was wrong with her, which couldn't have been further from the truth. If anything, I would have loved to produce a marriage with her. I didn't think that was possible, after what I lost. But it wasn't time for me to love. I couldn't.

In a burst of instinct and intense emotion, I dropped to a knee and held her hand and implored her to understand that there were things beyond her understanding, and I just couldn't be involved in a romantic relationship in this period of my life. But her insecurities overtook her, I could detect it, and no amount of begging turned what was intended to be a protective break-up into another traumatic episode in my life. Before she left the room, she took a glance back at the love poem taped to my closet door, and angrily tore it before departing into isolation.

On the floor, I tried to decipher what just occurred in the air, this moment in time and space. Since the age of 16, I've tried desperately not to hurt girls and be dear and a knight to a beloved. But it is here, again, another broken girl, bleeding memories and a destroyed dream. It felt necessary to travel into this decision, in her best interest, but yet again - lonely crying girl in the aftermath. In rebirth people transform into something stronger, I just wish there was a way to drain the pain and block it. The destroyed poem on the floor, it occurred to me to just pick it up again, tape it to the wall and line out the Wolfsangel.

This time, at least, it wasn't on a ribcage, across a tattoo dedicated to me. This time at least, I didn't need to stop a suicide. It looks like I'm learning, isolated. A born villain in the end, though. Obviously.

--------------------------------

7 years later, and I'm staring at a music video, preparing myself to meet up with a girl who traveled through half of Oregon to see me. I'm not even turned on. "Just say you remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe." It hurt reminiscing the last drive in Orlando to the airport, holding the hand of the woman intended to be my wife. What was meant to be a death and resurrection show turned out to be a long dragged out death (yet another), but without the resurrection. "Red lips and rosy cheeks," masculine teardrops isolatedly dropping, this time from me, as the blue expansive sky transformed into a infuriated but despondent orange-red incinerating peacefully. "Say you'll see me again."

In the window, I saw my reflection and it looked like a shadow on the other side of a necromantic divination, the soul who refused to die and was forced to see the remaining world transform. In a Portland studio. Like I imagined. "I thought heaven can't help me now." But I put myself together. "Nothing lasts forever."

This girl I am spending tonight with is my lust desire, but I intended on also treating her in an incendiary trend. Ignite a fire within her, to drape her in confidence and inject joy and friendly love into her. It felt fun fucking girls in the past decade, and distracting myself with men and boys, but this was different. It felt intimate, like (ha!) in the beforetime. I wanted her to use me to build her confidence back. I was bewildered how such an incredibly lush and beautiful precious blonde didn't rejoice in her innate sluttiness and sexual tenacity. It was a drag, like a fountain of precious water being stopped by a douchebag or bad situation, I don't know what happened. But as I watched the wilderness and beasts in the video, it occurred to me if the same had happened to me.

It was a pleasant night, and talking with her and traveling downtown and the waterfront inspired me to open a bit, and in her eyes, I could see she liked that. This girl enjoyed tearing me open. Like a predator. In the hotel room, is when I involuntarily turned. It felt vulnerable, unlike other situations in the past few years. This was uncomfortable.

But our bodies spoke, and as we trashed in the bed, the scent in the air took me back to the girl from high school. I was intending to perform a gentle, loving gesture, unlike previous escapades with other people. This time, it was intimate. I looked in her eyes, inhibiting tears internally, and she looked at me warmly and sweetly said,

"you really loved them, didn't you?"

It felt as if for the first time in my life, a person truly believed me, but it wasn't in words, but in my indeliberate body language that spoke on its own.

"Sorry, I was just having some flashbacks...."

"That's okay. Let's make some flashforwards, then."

It was at then that I turned into the other side of relationships, time, and dimensions. Not the previous transforming chapters that I thought were necromantic turning points, but in that sentence, that point in time, that this almost unknown girl said. As I bowed my head to taste her delicious pussy, my heart was content and it was a lively and joyful fun night. The intensity and trauma was off, and like I intended, I was able to make her quiver, ignite, and unleash her sexual confidence. But in pure honesty, in her predatory lustful eyes (the pupils don't lie) I think I was the one being devoured, all in blissful good fun.

--------------------------------

It's my hope she fucked well-mannered handsome guys, perhaps begin a relationship with one, but it finally seemed like I learned to be intimate. In a different time, in a different dimension, we could have been together, but it looks like it was my role within this timeline to ignite and awaken her confidence again. Healing is produced in the most unexpected areas, and I learned that. Debauchery & sexuality are the Devil's realm, and it's fascinating how it proves to be therapeutic.

If heaven isn't going to help me, it won't prevent me from dispatching the call in the shadow of Hawthorne just to let a high school lover know and say "I love you." And it didn't. It won't stop the chants of "HONOR, COURAGE, COMMITMENT" from a bursting guitar screaming in fury. It didn't stop me from taking that girl into my room, and breaking up with her. Drenched in perversion and sin, distractions of lust candy and debauchery, doesn't change the fact that intimacy is found in unlikely circumstances. It doesn't darken and extinguish the light of the inner soul that is known as love. It doesn't matter what they say and it won't deny, and it won't hide - because what this girl said, in that line, is true.

Signifying Nothing

"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage... and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." - Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

[2014]

Frustrated, I slammed the vaporizer violently against the ground as I walked to my bus stop. The sound of the crack was excruciatingly refreshing, as paradoxical as it sounds. Tiny shreds of glass splashing on the road felt like scratching a intense itch, a mental itch, and I savored the end of the vaporizer as if it was a living annoyance meeting death.

I've spent, like, a week taking proper care of it, making sure it was giving off the right vapor and that the liquid was clean, but it kept giving me problems. Sometimes it wouldn't give off vapor, just liquid would swim from the top, and it was making weird noises. It was fucking annoying.

No excess time was spent maintaining it, but the concentration and consideration utilized irritated my brain each time it would malfunction later on in the day. All for nothing.

Drops of concentration and care dripping into the holder of investment just destroyed, blown away into oblivion and forgotten and abandoned moments in time.

Life, experience, whatever this thing that consciousness interacts with, is just waiting to die and be forgotten - swept away by the wave of time. At its core, all we have is experience and memories, anything outside of those two factors doesn't mean anything to the living organism. We can only experience and remember, that's what consciousness is. It's what makes us a "thing."

I'm destined to receive Alzheimer's, it's hereditary and will arrive to me when I'm older. Alzheimer's numbs your experience to the point in where you can't even recognize your surroundings, and it also erases your memories. It's death worse than physical death.

All these investments and labor are destined to be not just destroyed, but erased from the plane of existence and eternity. It's like a struggle and conflict to erect a sand castle, and as you build it, you know, eventually an ocean wave will arrive and not just destroy it, but eliminate any trace of it existing in the first place.

Things are getting better, but for the past few months I've been demoralized as fuck. Everything that I worked for, decisions and things that I planned out very carefully and protected were just destroyed by random chaos. I'm in a position to rebuild, reconstruct, but I can't help but think "what for?"

Construct beautiful music and master the guitar, just to receive a hand injury and lose all the investment and energy that I placed into the skill? Be the best boyfriend I can be, concentrate and work on every decision that I make and have all that concern be forgotten about when the relationship turns sour and my work and energy is ignored or never recognized?

I'm tired and disgruntled, weary,  and I'm lethargic in my ambitions. The track and sound of "Clint Eastwood" clothes my scent as I exhale marijuana smoke which comforts and closes my eyes in lazy and apathetic demoralization.

Fucking *yawn*.

Fuck it.

This is not weakness or lack of will. I'm fulfilling personal obligations and goals, but I compulsively announce, "what's the point?"

I note that there's no cameras to record the experience of the experiencer at all times, just myself, the experiencer, searching into the depths of my memories to present this as if it meant something...

 

 

[2019]

I'm in the future, and now I can tell that I was wrong. It meant something. Every kiss I gave, every honorable act I performed, every time I stood tall, every time I cursed a cigarette, and every time I called equality a lie - it meant something. Insecurity has always been my vice, but it's better than unsubstantiated ego worship (it's better earned).

In the end, only instinct matters. Will. If you need to break up with someone, do it. If you know that you're going to be lied to by an employer, trust yourself. If you know your cock size is huge, flaunt it. Journalistic projections is sometimes the only thing you have to send something eternal to be observed, but regardless, individual acts matter within a subjective world.

For too long I've let others say and jump and scream, while I stood back as a gentleman and absorbed. But now it's my turn to speak. This different. This is my LiveJournal.


As for the past,

It didn't signify nothing.