Friday, December 28, 2007

The Meaning of Inner Work

This is what it means work. For this moment, I understand.
The yellow lamp, the smiling mouth, the blue energy-all are open targets for my rage. Screams are close, ready to drench the space with red violence. And the tears, my steady friends remain on the lids of my eyes.
My daily exercises are preparations for this- when the pain sets in and I need every amount of will I possess to not destroy the surrounding spaces. Grasping onto the memory of ritual, I inhale. Slowly, the molecules fill my lungs and stomach.
Through the ache of being- I breathe. Inside, my body is collapsing, every learned expectation and image is being ripped, destroyed beyond recognition.
Piles of memories lay in heaps, my old self walks among them like a lost ghost in a junkyard. The familiar is painful, the new is excruciating, and I am not of either place. Both are foreign, possessing words and people from the netherworlds.
Slowing my breath, moving my hands in circular gestures, opening my eyes in exaggerated spasms…working constantly, I stay.

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