Aftermath.

“There’s comfort in dying

Comfort in burning

Maybe, we should burn?”

Slipping off layers. Tip toeing around supposed truths to get to the marrow of it all — maybe a “death” of a thing isn’t the scariest thing in the world? The ego death, in my body, ranges from a bellow to a whisper. The cling and release. The benevolent unattachment. The violent sway of it all. And it’s so damn beautiful to watch. I have had an affinity for what is tumultuous, and this process feels like a Rembrandt in the flesh. Not only am I art, my “dying” is as beautiful as they come. The soaring is as beautiful as it comes. I kiss my demons, one by one, on both cheeks, to let them know “it’s been a pleasure, but you’re no longer welcome”. I spritz the innards of my soul with holy water to carry on and I recognize that a proper funeral is in order … here lies the remnants of conditioning that can’t begin to serve this soul, anymore.

“I hung myself,

I didn’t die.

I’m omnipotent, I’m alive

Not real, I’m alive.”