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07 September 2005 @ 09:36 pm
Bleeding the light from the tip of your star.  
To die and be reborn, this the nature of all things. Shedding the old is nothing more than a process of integration and assimilation towards the new, but the knowledge of the cyclic, transubstantive >>thisness << in me makes it no more bearable, less painful or palatable in a way that I want more. In fact, even though I am waaaay old enough to remember that happiness sine waves in accordance with some internal moon - I can't, like, actually recall it as anything other than some bas relief of the membrane. I think I loved you once - what was your name again?

I am suffocating from the awareness and drwoning in the ink of a midnight that won't relent already. Only this dark is not the calligraphic smokelined, pale skinned Nico that Joy Division would have you think; rather it settles and spreads over you like a slow-moving gelatinous film. My eyes are permanently dimmed, my neck non-existent and the sparkly parts have long grown dull. I don't even have the patience or energy for my favourite pursuits. Woe to thee ye long-distanced paramours of thought reaching your erotically poised tendrils for complexities I can't muster. Woe more to me. It is horror enough to send me straight into the Waters Deep replete with limp flowers, a mad cry and appropriately rent garb. Here, where there is no green, no shimmer, no light.

I blame the stars, first. Neptune conjuncted my natal Saturn back in February spilling all my marbles and then spinning the room to boot. Uranus is opposing Uranus for the effective rip from within should I happen to think those spilt marbles are really all that worth pursuing. Not that I do - in fact, the one thing that all of this lack of light has bought me is a new awareness - even fascination -for the things that are nearer my reach. Groping sightless affords a strange and wonderful familiarity based in need rather than abject twinkle factor. Factor number two: said coalescing of ancient light forms coinciding with total individuality that is at this moment seeking me, alive, evolving and waiting for my permission to be found. Please, I beg, consider this as consent.

Mental note: Ritual for an Ecclesia, one and indeterminable. All hail the death of false evidences. Please, please let the truth be light.

The pinprick of light in all of this: Jupiter is due to conjunct my Sun in a month, to be followed by Venus and Neptune. This is the astrological equivalent of 'hope'. Which is all I have, in this moment. I feel lost between worlds - I know too much to not see the backdrop, but can't quite get hold of the puppet strings. So I wait, and that's enough. Enough to not suffocate under the brutish invisibility of the ever-present limp and viscous hand; enough to hold on to what little slip of cosmic remnant that hope actually represents, towards a promise of glow, somewhere up there, where all of you beauteous and lighted flowers abide.