my heart,

hear me!

whatever is the source of that


living out her independent existence whilst we sleep.

that beast.

occupying the remote blackness of

that most foreign and somehow strangely familiar

terra incognita of our darkest darkness.

she is the true poet;

the maternal creator;

the puppeteer known as


our Pietà;

our forlorn soul.

my heart, we are endowed with the tortured soul of generations before.

a soul tainted by vanity, envy and vengeance.

belonging to those hearts who suffered greatly in the fires of primeval and transcendental


where the tortured soul bequeathed was forged.

you and i have all but happened upon such a soul and by no fault of our own.

though, we must take responsibility, nonetheless.

oh, but my heart,

do not be dismayed.

for in the perpetual present there is always the

dawn and plenty of

time for action.

it must be our solemn prerogative to revive the spirit of our soul and restore her youth.

we must destroy ourselves and wage war upon the very mistress we wish to save.

this is the only way!

we must become inspired–

for this is a privilege of the child.

yes, you heard me correctly, the CHILD—

the artist and the mother (Nature).

what i mean to suggest is simply that

the Holy Grail of existential creation is to be found by those who have been reborn;

awakened, if you will,

having intentionally reverted to child-like perspectives without being obliged to do so.

my heart,

we must be reborn.

we must do away with all accumulated knowledge to this point.

it is rigid and a watermark of the rebellion on high;

a characteristic of the uninspired!

heavens, what a tragedy this would mean for some–they would have nothing left to dilute the potency of their vanity;

no tainted virtue to brandish in the name of plebeian truth.

alas, my heart, i digress.

we mustn’t waste another moment of the present and now.

we must act promptly!

we must embark on our very own


we cannot cower in fear!

there is not time for doubt!

we must endeavor to discover the pure and illusive inspiration of brightest light.

we must enter into the dark and dismal labyrinth of night where dangers of iniquity are multiplied a thousandfold!

dangers which are endogenous and inherently human.

we must seek to obtain information from our aforementioned mistress.

for she is keeper of the lost scriptures;

the coveted commandments of the inspired!

to do so, one must first become a recluse and

turn toward the flame.

a journey inward is destined for enumerable sufferings and we will likely parish–one can only hope!

the profundity of our sacrifice will be greater than that of Hector and so far beyond the reach of comprehension that humanity cannot begin to grasp the gravity of its implications nor sympathize with it.

and upon our rebirth, out of the ashes,

we will embody the wisdom of fire and

subsequently acquire the ineffable wicked eyes of Athena Glaukopis

and thus all prerequisite faculties necessary for the impending crusade, which we must wage, upon the mistress of our slumber.

we must then venture forth upon the roaring open sea, which cannot be consoled,

and plunge into the frigid abyss that lies before us.

look alive, shipmate!

we must, somehow, muster the fortitude to

sail to edge of the world,

to the mouth of the river Styx–which is not a river at all, but a vast sea,

and investigate the homeland of our mistress;

the Minotaur of our nightmares;

the poet;

the maternal creator;

the puppeteer known as


our Pietà!

i must disclose to you, my heart,

even with the wisdom of fire,

there are still further depths of agony from which desolation itself appears no longer a tragedy in comparison to the tribulations of the endeavoring one out on the open sea–the dwelling place of our soul.

nonetheless, we must nobly confront our great white whale,

our mistress of existential chaos and demand from her recompense;

or at minimum explanation,

for transgressions committed in the night.

we simply must!

and once the battle has been won–

mind you, it must be won!

and our soul has been slain,

we will witness her simultaneous rebirth.

and in turn, we will be again like the child,


and knowing not the difference between good and evil.

[ Photo feature: Marilyn Monroe by Ralph Steadman – ‘Paranoids,’ 1986 ]

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