Life is a precious thing; it is something we often do not consciously appreciate, especially as the voids of darkness strangle our Hearts.
But as we stand there forlorn on this snowy night under the lamppost at the end of Lime Street, we close our eyes and see the Ghost of Christmas Future standing there before us. He, beheld as God, opens his hands like the branches of the forest above, and smiles in the timeless motion of the clouds. His eyes are great and brilliant blue, the color of the Sky, the color of the Sun, the color of those same waters way beneath, though they are quite warm as heat naturally rises. And the clock of all existence shutters with the batting of his right eyelid, and yet it remains perfectly intact and swollen with golden glory in his left eye. The third is a spindle that wraps the threads of all time and space ‘round and ‘round and ‘round in a dazzling, imposing, hypnotic glare. Flying into this blackest hole of every color known we are then born into the World.
The clock strikes twelve at the midnight hour, and here we lie nestled in the new darkness. As we rise from these ashes, the Ghost of Christmas Past beckons you to hold your roots in the midst of this divine torrential bang of creation, while in this aching nest the primordial thunderstorm lashes you with harsh rain and scars you with brutal winds. And despite that chaos which surrounds you, you are still you, you are still the very key you need to open your sanctuary of tranquility and summon forth the experience you have acquired…oh ‘tis quite the story you’ve opened! The tragedies, the comedies, the romances and the adventures! What all you have endured in this vacuum swallowed up by Earthly delights of both the natural and the unnatural! How drastic your life has turned upside-down and then right-side up, viciously shaken like a can of soda! The nerve of the God above who toys with our life with hidden, influential strings! The despair! But then the love. The sweet, kind gestures that impress the most memorable events upon our psyche…oh, no matter the woes, that light is the most brilliant. That light of purity and order…that nostalgic glow that permeates throughout us as if we were but a glass chalice holding the liquid of youth rife with emotional watercolors and sensational touches. The Spirit of Beauty in congress with God. Before the throne we make ready for our initiation and purification, standing there naked in complete awe and everlasting inspiration. What we know then becomes what we feel in a mesh of wild colors deliberately thrown about haphazardly, yet just in all the right places.
Consciousness expanding in dramatic deep breaths, the Ghost of Christmas Present is the glistening, dewy reflection of our own Self ushered out of the womb on Yule morning. Snow-blinded, we cry forth for our mother! We enter the atmosphere of Earth and take on her vibrations, into concentration, into solidity…what are we?! These forms are so unlike our free spirits! Ah, we are the flesh of God! Hallelujah and Hare Krishna! Our forms are a work of art! These new designs, the feelings are incredible! Real, real, and real as anything could ever be. No question about that. These electric waves are rich indeed, giving light a whole new meaning. And when we look back onto that old light that now mysteriously seems so distant from us now, we step into that Bavarian winter oil painting and look up at the frozen lamppost and recall the succulent experience we have rationally come to identify with…as if the story is the author, rather than the author creating his work from a separate mind. The details are so consuming! We must perfect our story, every inch, every glance, every mode and operation, we must engross our Selves in this psychotic analysis until we have reached just the right conclusion, otherwise we disgrace our name, we disgrace our image, we disgrace Goddess and God! No! The shame fills our Hearts and we mustn’t let Mother and Father down! Not in a million years! We must continue till we make our Selves worthy of their presence! Before their rocking chair thrones, on the rug, in front of the hearthfire, we desire nothing more than their smile. Their smile spills joy from our Hearts in orgasmic glee, and we know now we are them.
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