What the hell...
It can't just be drunken ramblings. I know it wasn't; they do, too.
So many spiritual revelations since I've met this man. So many things that make sense to me: the way he accepts my energy flow; the way he is able to give it back to me. The spells he has where he sees his past lives, and mine, and the ways we went wrong in the past, the ways we must do it right this time.
And then she: the Chaos Faery, swooping into our lives and catalyzing us. She, who talks about her lives, her magical work, her clairvoyance, as if she were talking about a grocery list. It's overwhelming, yet undeniably real.
And now: the two of them, realizing how old their souls truly are. And how young mine is. The two of them: communicating by telepathy, each one knowing things, remembering them as the other says them. Fellow creatures, lions, angels, old gods. I feel small, young, uncomprehending. Like I don't know anything, and I never will.
I've always felt that I don't quite belong in this world. That I wasn't made to interact with other humans, that I can't survive in the ordinary rush of life. I never could hold onto a job, one that forced me to be in the same place every day at a given time. I never did have a knack for money. I never could understand my peers, though I'm getting closer to that. But even there: there are only a few people I truly consider friends. The people I really let in.
And even some of the people I feel close to, it's mostly because they're letting me in. I tell them what sound like secrets, but they're really things I don't consider all that private. They trust; they tell me about their dark places and their fears. And when I'm lucky, I can heal them.
I may have been made to be a healer. More and more, it seems that way. But the curse of the healer is that all of her energy flows outward. People come to her, not as equals, not as friends, but as sufferers offering tribute in exchange for relief. She talks to them, or massages them, or medicates them, or ties them up and beats them. She pushes on the edges, softer than most people know, of their psyches until the broken pieces start to poke through into the light. The light kills the broken bits of darkness, dissolves them in the bright air the way sunlight kills a mold. Like a creeping fungus, people's ills need dark places to survive.
But it's only now that I've met my love, my boy, my man, that I know how to heal. That I believe I can.
Is it always necessary for me to have cheerleaders? Can I never believe in myself enough to do the work myself, to put myself out there and see what happens? I'm too afraid of laughter, ridicule, my own inexperience, or worse: that I might truly hurt someone through my ignorance.
And arrogance. The need to carry myself with inflated confidence is absolutely necessary to what I want to do, until that feeling becomes reality through experience. But what does it do to a soul to strut through the world, self-aggrandizing? And what does it do to the world, to lean your weight upon it so heavily, demanding things from people: their secrets, their hurts, their fantasies? Their pain?
Come out of the woodwork. Line up all your little buttons in front of me, like a typewriter, for me to press as I choose. Let me type out the scroll of your belief. Let me write the story of your fantasy, the story you never even would have thought of telling to yourself. Let me tease the paper through you line by line, injecting phrases from your childhood, words you've spoken to me, lines of dialogue you've told me only in gesture, in the way you stand when you're near me. Let the narrative stretch until what you want and what I want blur together, until, not as the djinn says but truly, your wish is my command: I command you, and whatever you are told to do is the thing you most wish for.
I feel that I can do it now. Only now, that you are near me. Only now, that you two, your old souls enfleshed one last time, before you go to wander the stars, where you should be, are here instead, under a pact of trust, a bond that demanded that you find me, that you lift me to your faces and help me realize my own greatness.
So many spiritual revelations since I've met this man. So many things that make sense to me: the way he accepts my energy flow; the way he is able to give it back to me. The spells he has where he sees his past lives, and mine, and the ways we went wrong in the past, the ways we must do it right this time.
And then she: the Chaos Faery, swooping into our lives and catalyzing us. She, who talks about her lives, her magical work, her clairvoyance, as if she were talking about a grocery list. It's overwhelming, yet undeniably real.
And now: the two of them, realizing how old their souls truly are. And how young mine is. The two of them: communicating by telepathy, each one knowing things, remembering them as the other says them. Fellow creatures, lions, angels, old gods. I feel small, young, uncomprehending. Like I don't know anything, and I never will.
I've always felt that I don't quite belong in this world. That I wasn't made to interact with other humans, that I can't survive in the ordinary rush of life. I never could hold onto a job, one that forced me to be in the same place every day at a given time. I never did have a knack for money. I never could understand my peers, though I'm getting closer to that. But even there: there are only a few people I truly consider friends. The people I really let in.
And even some of the people I feel close to, it's mostly because they're letting me in. I tell them what sound like secrets, but they're really things I don't consider all that private. They trust; they tell me about their dark places and their fears. And when I'm lucky, I can heal them.
I may have been made to be a healer. More and more, it seems that way. But the curse of the healer is that all of her energy flows outward. People come to her, not as equals, not as friends, but as sufferers offering tribute in exchange for relief. She talks to them, or massages them, or medicates them, or ties them up and beats them. She pushes on the edges, softer than most people know, of their psyches until the broken pieces start to poke through into the light. The light kills the broken bits of darkness, dissolves them in the bright air the way sunlight kills a mold. Like a creeping fungus, people's ills need dark places to survive.
But it's only now that I've met my love, my boy, my man, that I know how to heal. That I believe I can.
Is it always necessary for me to have cheerleaders? Can I never believe in myself enough to do the work myself, to put myself out there and see what happens? I'm too afraid of laughter, ridicule, my own inexperience, or worse: that I might truly hurt someone through my ignorance.
And arrogance. The need to carry myself with inflated confidence is absolutely necessary to what I want to do, until that feeling becomes reality through experience. But what does it do to a soul to strut through the world, self-aggrandizing? And what does it do to the world, to lean your weight upon it so heavily, demanding things from people: their secrets, their hurts, their fantasies? Their pain?
Come out of the woodwork. Line up all your little buttons in front of me, like a typewriter, for me to press as I choose. Let me type out the scroll of your belief. Let me write the story of your fantasy, the story you never even would have thought of telling to yourself. Let me tease the paper through you line by line, injecting phrases from your childhood, words you've spoken to me, lines of dialogue you've told me only in gesture, in the way you stand when you're near me. Let the narrative stretch until what you want and what I want blur together, until, not as the djinn says but truly, your wish is my command: I command you, and whatever you are told to do is the thing you most wish for.
I feel that I can do it now. Only now, that you are near me. Only now, that you two, your old souls enfleshed one last time, before you go to wander the stars, where you should be, are here instead, under a pact of trust, a bond that demanded that you find me, that you lift me to your faces and help me realize my own greatness.