HIS DARK SIDE

pastellynelly4 asked: Is that your work? It's absolutely beautiful

It is.

Thank you for making me smile (and taking the time to read me).

Simple compliments are wonderful.

Destined to fade into obscurity. The annals of history will forget our legacies. No one will weep. Our hearts, which once beat hard and absorbed the mighty suffering of the collective unconscious, reduced to ashen dust, our souls risen like plumes into the ether.

So take this moment to love. Love a tree, or a fucking acorn. Love the feel of skin on bed sheet or the rancid smell of public toilets. Love each expression of life which chambers in the myriad of hallways and open spaces. Love each living creature as if it’s existence were one with your existence. Love your reflection in dirty mirrors. Love me, for I am you. And in loving, you will soon return to love that person who is most deserving of such love. You.

Destined to fade into obscurity. The annals of history will forget our legacies. No one will weep. Our hearts, which once beat hard and absorbed the mighty suffering of the collective unconscious, reduced to ashen dust, our souls risen like plumes into the ether.

So take this moment to love. Love a tree, or a fucking acorn. Love the feel of skin on bed sheet or the rancid smell of public toilets. Love each expression of life which chambers in the myriad of hallways and open spaces. Love each living creature as if it’s existence were one with your existence. Love your reflection in dirty mirrors. Love me, for I am you. And in loving, you will soon return to love that person who is most deserving of such love. You.

Perhaps this is the impasse.

Perhaps Shakespeare was right. That life really is a tale, full of sound and fury, told by an idiot, signifying nothing.

Perhaps this is the impasse.

Perhaps Shakespeare was right. That life really is a tale, full of sound and fury, told by an idiot, signifying nothing.

The dilemma becomes a struggle between the lower Self which projects insecurity, vainly disguised as narcissism.

And the higher Self which wants to abandon and detach, in favour of connecting with people through the mechanisms of love, joy and peace.

The dilemma becomes a struggle between the lower Self which projects insecurity, vainly disguised as narcissism.

And the higher Self which wants to abandon and detach, in favour of connecting with people through the mechanisms of love, joy and peace.

The uphill struggle of wellness. Despite genetic encoding for weakness, infirmity and illness, I strive to optimize what I have been gifted.

The uphill struggle of wellness. Despite genetic encoding for weakness, infirmity and illness, I strive to optimize what I have been gifted.

Pictures from my true home.

Pictures from my true home.

I lay

In pieces

Enduring.

Here.

Where are you?

Do you endure?

Connect with nature,

Not to the internet.

Flowing in natural harmony with ones personality and disposition is supremely martial.

Unlike others, I do not suppress nor repress my processes with a view to, inter alia, presenting myself as a noble, yet altogether vacuous, being.

When I am angry, I allow for the mechanism of violence to flow freely and adrenalin and cortisol to be secreted without restraint.

By allowing one to flow in natural harmony with the inclinations of the body is ‘wu wei’; the active-elusive of unforced action.

His Dark Sutra: Diary - Waking

An airless morning.

Staring out of a window I see vacuum grey, as if a 2B pencil has shaded the sky. The world appears listless. Droplets of saliva gather around my mouth desperate for a cascade of hydration.

Black coffee chugs down my gullet, churning in a maelstrom of black soapy water as I drink. Careless of taste, motivated instead by an unwavering desire to become alert.

It will rain soon.

The march of spiders upon taut legs, whisking within silken webs will be silenced. The follies of hot days will be washed away. The heavens will open and water will crash down, cleansing mound and mountain.

I must workout. The gym has become distanced, replaced by a burgeoning desire to kick and punch each day. But today I must press and push. Muscles need to be pumped with blood, straining skin and sleeve. Breath and heart rate driven forth.

Be cautious Suki… Left elbow jarred from having been thrown to the ground last night. Swollen. Neck shivers with grinding sounds when I turn my head. Too many chokes last week. Shoulder aches. Hands ache. Body aches.

Hand brushes over head. The grit of stubble as chin grates against palm.

I’ll workout and feel renewed.

And the world will be cleansed.

His Dark Sutra: Diary

16 Sep 2014

I cut a fine figure slouched against a wooden chair, as coffee sits, perched atop an auburn table. Black blazer, fitted, hugs my midsection. There is something comforting about a blazer. It is like a gentle fragrance which moves with the contours of the body, but not so empowering as to stifle the naturalness of the wearer.

My pocket square is tastefully McQueen. Small white circles against a black backdrop, which on close inspection reveal rows of indifferent skulls. Fitted jeans. The right pocket of which contains an aluminium pen, housing smooth black ink which flows velveteen when I sign contracts. Beside the pen, is a credit card shaped knife, with small razor sharp blade. Subtlety is key.

Shoes, are plain suede Oxfords in light grey. They attract the eye away from an ensemble that appears all too somber.

Black.

Always black.

Black is supremely arrogant. Black is the colour of fire burnt out, and the reduction of all illumination. Darkness, like the expansion of nothingness into the infinite depths of the universe. Black like pitch. Obsidian, like scrying mirrors beside my bed.

All those touched by madness

Sit down next to me.

All those broken hearted beautiful creatures

Sit down next to me.