Attraction. Diamonds, pearls, eyes that glow. I want the deepest teaching. Magnetism, revulsion, it’s all a turn off momentarily. The tide goes in and out, in and out. The darkness pulls from underneath, the ground gets looser. Tantra. Touching bodies, heat. Cold minds. The two could tangle without their own knots. Untie to tie to the bow of God. Heart Bow. The gift of bodies. You want direct combat, confrontation, explanation? Sometimes. Why not? Should we talk about chakras and integration, organized spiritual welfare or how enlightenment is a train wreck and you thought it was me. What can I tell you? The dynamics of fucking, dating, priming the pump, getting over yourself in the midst of it all. If I said God is sex, I didn’t mean you were a horny desperate monkey. I meant know thyself deeply in me. How, who cares how. First the story must generate friction and yearning. Since you think you have, know and are. Since you are proud as is the equation, we stumble and we fumble and we call the words useless. The words that define the momentum. Waves of bliss, desire, self abandon. Stop. Think of someone besides yourself, I mean really. In my experience it’s all about being recognized. Unfortunately God or Christ do not recognize themselves they only see God in you, outside. Yes, I don’t know. It’s an example. Objectifying the interior of the moment, the space is a crime. Creating a wormhole so you can crawl out after you’ve eaten all you can take. Tantra. It’s your problem if you put words in my mouth. It’s your loss if you’re so empty you fuel up on the other. You want magical powers? Pathetic, glory seeker. Selfish, self obsessed, hedonistic fool. You should want only her light and her splendor to bath you in invisibility. Yet you stand on an ant hill claiming the light. I haven’t claimed any light, mother light doesn’t mean me, it’s a place. It’s a land. I lay my head on her pillow, nobody ever comes. I can’t have anything I am not. Tantra, two bodies, must be aligned. “Tell me about alignment,” such arrogance. Why don’t you tell me. Why don’t you listen. Why won’t you disappear? Devotion means disappearance without a trace. No power, no recognition, no name, no reason, no acknowledgement, no nothing but the paralysis of perfect static. Love is frozen in it’s own dance. Love is very real yet undetermined. When the two stop moving, when the earth stops spinning, when everything ceases to exist, love reigns supreme. “I want to fall in love.” How? It’s such a fractional attempt at perfection. What is misunderstood as far as I see is the components. It is not the body that is beautiful that feels the other body that is beautiful, that the eyes have determined as such. No. It’s the stars pulling light and darkness from each other, it’s the matching of missing pieces, it’s out of our control. It’s the soul determining the spark and why and how and to what end? The long list of reasons and qualifications and attempts at surrender to her who is the one spinning is useless. Have it your way. Keep your head another day, tell others how they feel. Keep yourself locked tight in delusion and habit. Keep the waves away, talk about dying and Christmas trees, obliterating oceans and starlight that searches. I do understand and I do see. Myself, always me gripping the unclimbable mountain called God, my true love in the hot seat. You could say I fuck with people, or maybe we all do. I see it more as unravel, untangle for a greater good. Me and you, without condition. What’s this thrill of the pulsating wave, what’s this need to be seen, what’s this need of you that can’t stop looking at the seed that’s so deep you can’t find it anyway until it sprouts? The need to be outside the moment, afraid, watching, counting, looking, imagining. Wasting what’s real -which is direct experience.
I give I do I only offer direct experience. I talk. I hate talking. You should learn to talk so that you are understood. You should work for the other so they hear your words and feel understood by you. You should stop being selfish and spoiled. You should do only what seems appropriate for you. You shouldn’t listen to me unless you are struck to hear. I am not the one who knows, maybe I see, maybe not. I can’t guarantee anything except that I’ll go there, I’ll go anywhere I feel in the moment without any second thought. I guess that’s dangerous, it feels fine to me. I guess letting go and drowning is tantra. Only when you know she is the water that you’re drowning in of course, otherwise you’re just dead for no good reason. Everyone wants everyone else to suit them, their whims, weaknesses and hang ups, myself included. It’s uncomfortable, this edge of confusion. This mind blowing realm of invigorating threat. Fear, mice, holes chewed in bags. Body bags, food. Don’t feed on anyone’s eyes or body. Give to God, who you look for, give everything you have and are. Stop taking, knock before entering. Respond. Hold yourself accountable. Go beyond the calling, walk straight up to the top and lay yourself down like a rag. Clean others with your body but first, give yourself away to the fear of her terrible light. Which is what this ever is. There is no darkness, only the light we have not been powerful enough to see. We grow, we begin to see, glimpses of light spreading through unseen territory. We have always only feared this light. Don’t be confused, stop putting words in my mouth, stop lying that one day your day will come. It won’t. This is it. I hope you’re happy stuck in the spokes, I hope you someday see you had nothing to prove to me. I hope you see her pacing in your hallways. I hope you know I am only a willing participant. I hope you know my love, my detachment, my wrath and my waiting are all for you who is God. I hope you know I am not special, I am broken. I got up and like a puppet am animated by the wisdom and insanity of space, dark matter and time. There is a clock inside us all, an alarm that goes off. The time could be now. Wake up dead groping body. Five days of lucidity won’t pull you through another 360 days of opacity. Love. I got off track. Yes, I love you terribly. Yes you’re not there, unavailable and pretending. It’s up to you, not me. You could show me who you are, open the deep cellar, swim in your body towards me. Whoever is ready, I am waiting. Let me say once again, I am nobody and likely a big egomaniac, why take chances? But I will give you whatever light I have because God is spreading a watery heaven over us like the moon spreads the ceaseless waves, and the earth is being split open by a lightening no man has ever seen. And there is a heart thunder rumbling like it’s the last second of time and tomorrow never comes. It never has and it never will. Today, right now, is the last and first chance we will ever have to make a death defying leap into the oblivion of the deepest most terrible light known as some sort of love that we have yet to discover, determine, be inside. It’s a place. Love. It’s not simply a feeling. No, it’s a floating and submerging abode. In and out. The blanking out of anything we ever thought was real. Love is an eclipse. A wiping away of the human wave, a red bloody ripped open hole in your ocean chest. Waves of red goddess. Where did my heart go? I fed it to God. That’s what this is, not a romp in the hay. A kiss by a river. No, it’s fatal attraction my seasonal friend. There are no seasons in love. It’s all over. So that’s tantra alone or with two. Tantra, negating, ignoring you all over the place. You should look for God and do whatever you can to get closer. I hope it hurts, the cracking of death light’s hammer, the pounding, the sting of left over life.
That’s my take on this topic. You may think I’ve said nothing at all. And you’re right. It’s a schism of avoidance and an abode of heart beating heart. I’m not afraid of you, I’m covered in pain. I don’t lie, well maybe that’s a lie. I do my best. That’s the deflating factor. My best is never enough until I stop. Love stops everything like a nuclear bomb. It’s not about your feelings, it’s about your fear. Love Death God. Who cares? Stupid words. Direct experience. Leave your hovel, rich or poor and experience directly your fear of not being sheltered. You’re a liar unless you test your own words. Talk is cheap, like fucking bodies that hide behind flesh. I’m only saying walk the line. The hot wire of holy thread.
Everyone fits through the same stupid needle. Be different. Count backwards. Do something unusual, like think for yourself. Stop asking advice, opinions. Looking in the bathroom mirror posing. Get out of your head. And so I go another day reaching into nothing step by step, breathing ice blood, air laced with agony. Every sunrise I fill my heart with sadness like a sacred aching balloon and I carry the last day of forever into the fire of night as if I’ll never get a second chance to be you, my beloved snag. God. Sharada Devi