Subject matter is unimportant. I haven’t assumed a position, it’s impossible. Things are what they are. Light will burst through any open space. How or why isn’t because of the deity topic. All I have are opinions and beliefs. Even letting go won’t take those entirely. Your ideas don’t matter to me. My ideas are in the background of my mind. It all feels outworn, outdated. Misunderstood from the core. The purpose isn’t recognized, not at the root. Therefore stupid questions are asked and useless comments are made. Because floundering seems to be the way. Talking big, preaching, promising and throwing mantras around in between. It’s all so unimportant. What is valid is the result. The result happens because of the catalyst, the delivery. The magic that happens beyond any words that would make sense. What can I expect? What is the plan? How will we get there? As if the technique were even slightly what this is about. It’s the delivery. It’s the vehicle making the delivery. It’s the receptivity of the recipient. It’s about sincerity, simplicity. No irritating mind. It’s about understanding how we can’t stop lying to ourself and dressing that lie up with spiritual shit. It’s not about a voice, a gesture, a program, a handshake, a posture. It is about who has done the work that is deep. That cannot be faked or rushed. But it can be stalled, which is where we are at. Idle nonsense and I’m not into it. Come or don’t come. I have nothing, I give what she gives through me. It’s not in my control. I am self aware, not self obsessed. That alone is an impossible arrival. Yet it’s true and that’s how this goes. It’s not visible or audible not what’s really received. That’s just the generated up front activity to activate the portal. It goes both ways for the individual. In and out. In and out. Get it up. Go down and get it in. That’s it. So life sucks for a reason. Nobody has the subtle comprehension to get it- at least long enough to stay on that edge with precision. Keep walking, tighten up. Hold still, move faster. Nobody knows or can, because nobody cares deeply enough. Because if your suffering isn’t used wisely you just become more fearful and puffy. It’s unlikely that most humans will make any lasting changes. It’s set up to flip you over and over until you just get worn out. I can write forever, endless meaning and deeper reasons for it all. But if you can’t catch it, it’s meaningless. Receptivity is cultivated by every choice. It cannot be an overnight achievement and everything you do and don’t do matters. Excuses don’t matter. You are what you’ve done with whatever it is. I realize words are only weapons for the good if you can hear them as they were given. Everything goes down notch by notch, vibrationally- once it’s heard out loud. It’s a huge problem. Crude humanity. Crude, loud, fumbling, obnoxious, ignorant humanity. The self deceit is so great I know my words are entirely trash to the reader. Arrogance and denial prevails. There is so much at stake, so much to lose, so much to let go of. Surrender takes intense receptivity to the cause, it’s not giving up. That’s an excuse. This game we play with our lives is so basic it’s unfathomable. The mind is weak is the bottom line. Because it’s using itself to get through itself. So getting gone is the way, what an idea beyond thought. How? Wouldn’t you like to know. It’s a double bind. A double edged sword. A sophisticated subtle field of sweeping light. It’s an attack on your mental glory. It is a stake driven through the dead heart of the vampire. It’s like those jolts you get when they’re trying to revive you. It’s an emotional assault. And when the damn is finally broken, little by little you start to matter to existence. This outlet you become is a reverse osmosis channel. I have nothing but what I am aware of beyond my mind, what is unseeable and unknowable is all that matters to this body of transformation. Until I see, until I know beyond eyes will I receive what is written. My heart is a destination yet to reach, just a feeling of pain bent on me. I get emails from people who read the blog feeling sorry that “I’m in a bad place.” Sending me prayers and advice. It’s sad, the toxicity of denial. I am close to home, I am not lost anymore. Because I am on the road where she travels through me. She being the destroyer of the mind. She being the reason for my animation. She being what you get from me. She being whatever you can grasp by my spell of words. She being ruthlessly driven to arrive on time. Where he lies waiting, I go…
she came from under the bed and she slithered across the room. She was a reptile. She was supernatural. She was naked and quicksilver fast. He was sitting in a chair just watching me sleeping in the bed. I was sleeping but I was also watching him watch me sleep. I was watching everywhere. She quickly slithered up the right side of his body and disappeared into a hole behind the chair. I was reaching from under the bed toward him calling, “daddy.” He was also laying in the bed. I was falling somehow, away from him. He was violent even though he never really moved. I thought, “he’d have sex with anyone, he doesn’t care about me.” I was in a predicament. I can’t find what I came here for. Where did she come from and where did she go.
I was always afraid of what hid under my bed. Outside the window were sharp black branches reaching into the night. Nothing matters. Anything but this. I’ve done something terribly wrong. Why doesn’t he love me. I feel nothing. The branches scratch and tap the window reminding me to look through the glass, so I do.
So I see, she’s glowing naked. She’s eating death. She’s cruel and cold. She loves him more than she loves me. She has a hole in my room. She travels under my bed. There must be two places that join. There must be a tunnel where things are hidden. I haven’t eaten. The past is dead. Right. Children are buried here. I watch them all. She can’t even speak English. I doubt she can hear. He’s still in my bed, his eyes are turning red and filmy. The room is becoming white and opaque. Thick with us both. I comfort him for hurting me. He did do something terribly wrong. He beat me in silent ways. He drew with knives into steaks still uncooked. I held his cold hand. A piece gets left sometimes to be eaten. A lot happens at once in times like these. There are multiple dimensions aligning within and there is this night outside my window that I try to ignore. The night inside my window that I try to love. Everything, all of it. What have I done. If she’s grown old where did her other body go. Where are her animal friends hiding. Why is my mouth dripping with the air from his veins. Why am I here with this needle like tongue. It wasn’t me, it was her…I watch from the ceiling their faces turning blue. Fangs that are hidden, a cat walks into the room. Feathers that fall, an owl stares from a tree shadow. A wind comes from nowhere and sounds just like a baby crying. The cat wants to kill, the owl wants to kill. The wind wants to die. The baby was left uncovered outside. I am old. I am old. I am an old headless lady walking through decay. Floating through the trees I am what has fallen. Listen, I want everything you have. And I watch from a secret hole in the veil. Nobody will ever find me. And he lays there. He sits there, he’s always there, in my room dream, more real than any other dream. And I live under this bed. And I come up for air only sometimes. I want to know why she uses the tunnel and eats things that are already dead. I want to know why my skin is torn and I keep writing in books left unread. It’s a dark room but not always. There is the sound of morning coming sometimes in my thunder song. Rain, rain below the lightening of her striking image. Could I be the little song that I sing to the ceiling…from under the floor, the old floor where I hide…could I be hiding from the monster who lives inside…calling me from my very own eyes up above the down below. I don’t know…I cut off what I didn’t need and yet nothing dies instantly. Sharada Devi