There is the light that has always been light and then there is the light that has turned into darkness. There is that darkness that goes back to the light, that transmute the inertia of itself into movement and is born again in God. We all left for one reason or another, at least in our minds. The return is the alchemy of birth into death and this death of the lesser vessel then is reborn into an indomitable catalyst that embodies the dichotomy which is that all poison must be consumed in order to return. Until then, we starve and suffer. And even when we are willing to swallow, we could die or even get pregnant with the devil’s child. And so a mysterious force overshadows us, patiently training us. Pushing us as far as we’ll go without actual death. Physical death is nothing compared to the regeneration of poison into the luminous, shocking, diamond body of poisons. The poison is hard to take. The only cure is a wrathful heart. A heart that does not take no for an answer or ever forget why it came here. This evil fog we drift in dreaming ourselves into a denser death is the very clarity of the Mother Light. Confusion is dulling the pain. Recoiling from the bitter taste of fear. Clear seeing is the sweet taste of a ruthless heart who cuts through despair into awakening. The alchemical churning that pillages our souls and uproots our deluded self cherishing. The invisible bite on your neck is the Mother Light wounding her child, bruising flesh down to bone. Don’t get in the way of the love that knows no pity. The love that is unbreakable. Cannot be blinded anymore. This poison is our lives actually. You want to avoid reality and be pampered and cherished. You want to be successful, admired and adored. You want results, validation, positive reinforcement. You want relief from the glare of the ugly mirror and it’s harsh words. I know, we all want candy. It’s nothing but a rotten curse, wasting time. Excuses don’t matter. Nothing matters but this transmutation. Your body becoming the processing magical vessel. It doesn’t come easy. We are here for nothing else truly. I know we think we have very important things to do, become, show the world who we are. This is merely karma imploding upon itself once again. Get outside of your hallucination. Your name IS NOT your name. You don’t have one. This light we left is clear and full, empty and all pervading. We are dark spots struggling to know this, caught in the ominous nightmare of our own self cherishing. Give, we should give. Take the darkness, eat the poison. Give back Mother Light. We inherit her eyes and nothing else. But, even in this aspiration we must realize the treachery of the calling. We are not fit for the calling without allowing the eminence of the reality of death propelling life, being actually greater than the birth spark, being actually bigger than God at this time, being actually delivered to us as an opportunity in every moment. With every exhale, every blink of the eye. And this doesn’t mean running it means meeting the light head on and getting slammed if that’s the potent edge of the blade. It means in our lives, not reviving the ghosts that recreate the same dulling ache. It means being clear and facing our lack, fear of swallowing the results of the merging, meeting the space that we hold and eating the demons as if they were honey poured from the moon as she cried. Where do I belong if I am not me? How do we get out of here? By being bigger, breaking harder, shattering ourselves and not trying to glue ourselves back. Faith in the way truth is made. Reveals itself immaculately, not actually needing us at all. Words should create actions. Deep actions, magical words. Most words just perpetuate numbing familial curses and make only a denser numbing. Words mean thoughts as well. It’s the make or break syndrome. The make or break syndrome. What do I kill and what do I nurture. Where do I go to eat and be bright. Who do I love and by love I mean really, more than just a name and a face but a poisonous churning to disappear and be more. Love, when it’s real is a destroyer of illusion, not a perpetuator of the same ancient griefs. Nobody can stand real love, we all want it- no we do not. We want numbing, dull blades. The blades that don’t cut making new blood but the blades that rub, tracing old scars. We don’t see anybody like that. We use others to recreate wounds that can’t possibly heal until we suck out the poison for all sentient beings. This is my aspiration, sucking wounds.
And yet I feel sad for those who know me more than just a little because you’re going to lose everything that isn’t beyond the wound. All that we are, have, is like lint stuck to a sticky infected wound. We try to heal ourselves by covering the pus and itching with another title, a new useless girlfriend, a rich husband. These are not healing, the world doesn’t know. You probably don’t know the dismantling, inevitable annihilation involved in successful transmutation. It’s about loss, losing the attachment to everything and everyone obsolete. Finding value and resourcefulness in less, in the profound space of nothing. I don’t care if you end up on the street corner begging like a sinner. This is just the truth, the way it is. The wrapping up and tying of loose ends. The outcome of human evolution. THE RETURN. And what it takes is desolation, distillation, despair. And this is the alchemy, the letting go. The digestion of poison, who becomes our omniscience. Our diamond body of immortality, and I feel sad because it hurts and if you aren’t ready, but want to be- and just can’t make the cut, it’s tragic. So tragic, I can’t sleep at night. I can’t eat like it’s important to live. I can’t stop thinking of you in that haunted house scraping the hallways, feeding old ghosts that should have moved on, desperately tending your wounds in all the worst ways. There is no answer but to destroy. I’m sorry but it’s true. Our constructs, mental and otherwise are not safe even though it certainly feels right to cling, it’s only perpetuating the infection. The syndrome is make or break. Make more or break out. Breaking out is alchemy, spiritual evolution. The only thing we can do on earth that doesn’t disable other beings. We contribute who we are, and in the end, if we’re still making we just fucked the entire planet, and it’s not cool. Break the system. Breach the contract. I feel sad because I will ruin your life as you know it and when you leave prematurely, you’ll be worse for knowing me. It’s true, I’ve seen it over and over. It’s my curse. If you stay, it’s the only way. Bigger than identities. And I don’t mean stay with me as a person, I mean stay with me as the dust. There is no possible hope but to clear your life of clutter and be efficient with even your breathing.
It’s a calling to return. It’s not something we do as a hobby to accentuate our worldly engagements. No, the serpent power, driven by desire, sexual potency- is a destroyer before she is a redeemer. This is the most fundamental point. The process isn’t in your control and yet you must control your reactions to the cutting and sucking and the taste of bitter pain, poison. It’s your very own poison that’s being churned, it’s the very light of God fire that emerges and redeems. It’s not our comfort that matters, or even our safety, it’s the final result. The end justifies the means. You don’t get it really until you’re in it and then the light is so bright you can’t see it and it can even feel dark. It’s vibrational, its confrontational, it’s massive. The things we must move. Mostly it’s arrogance, pride, fear, attitude. Not enough love, not enough to die for. Dying means not leaving. You can’t run from death. Loving means disappearing into devotion and in that disappearance is the only freedom, the only relief from ourselves, that we as so called humans can hope for. This is the path of sexual transmutation, the alchemy of desire. POWER. The axis of the solar and lunar equation. The embodiment of death as the actual seed. The seed is always death first, not life. Life comes after the fact, in spite of the fact that we are not rigid. Undulating currents of electrical wrath, forged as desire. Purity upon purity and nothing else but purity. The poison is the only food that feeds the virgin snow flower. But first the poison must be eaten by you and burned by the clear fire of transcendent love. This seed is death, so hot it’s cold. So cold it bursts into flames. So dark it becomes the light. Holding on, to only my name. Which is unknowable at this time. I plant the seed of death in anyone I look at. I mean actually look at. That’s why I avoid real eye contact with humans. They can’t take it. Animals are ok, they love the death seed. And I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is. So what I’m saying is it’s too late to go back. How long will you idle, will you return to me? The hidden, forbidden honey I cry. The snow flower that can never die. The rainbow inside the diamond is what the poison becomes, because if I don’t love you, who does? You belong to me basically. It’s bigger than me. It’s the only way, sucking and implanting. It’s both of us going down. It’s the moon rising between bodies of gossamer light.

Sharada Devi


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