Jotted in Silence

He says it faintly—these inner hells—this angst of maneuvering; as mind must be occupied. He raptures a surface, as not to reveal, this inner mechanism. He wonders of others, to find his self, embedded in this web: the introjects, as blatant as disrespect, featured in a first voice. He wonders of others: that inner freedom, the deep silence, as in peaceful relaxation; but there’s a hunch, as favored as love, that others suffer with him: as inner abrasions, as inner frustration, where it approves rarely. What is It? It—is one’s inner self—that person, the one we negotiate with: this inner phantom, to change moods, as if fully agitated; wherewith are chills, and abrupt facial muscles, as if something leaped inwardly. It—came from afar, to make a home, especially in holy souls. He says it often, for barely a few, to wonder of others: what are they doing; are they breathing through self; is the weather different; for hell pressures, to join communion, a feature of the God he serves. It’s the darkness of light, as the light of darkness, revving trough a soulcave; as to enchant at first glance—this outward novice, into receiving gifts without giving; where this is havoc, this crooked bliss, as one indebted. He wonders of others, as for naked eyes, filled with lust; to crave for pleasures, as not to reckon, those deep hardships; as to repeat it, that time for again, to roam the valleys. He wonders of souls, that high the planets, locked down in secrets; as to endure cells, to rapture the core, looked upon as indifferent; but deep this secret, that inner reality, morphs into public squares. He couldn’t but perish, as by design, to grow as an image.     It’s been a warm winter, a frosty summer, as autumn was tears!     

     

He knows hell, and hell knows him. It’s a sick relation, founded on history, grounded in this mutual seeking; to understand God, as competition, as to punish the holy. He sees it, as vivid as chaos, to strike with vengeance; to challenge darkness, a part of himself, to deny the worst elements; but how for this, to pump in the good, where the bad hits the surface, to rupture the good; and then for war, this flavored self, at battle with features seeping out. It was never secret, this strong countenance, affronting likeminded souls. He earned it early, without forgiveness, to omit asking permission. It’s a Pauline character, this phantom’s force, to see as the apostles; for God heard, and watched for Joseph, an Egyptian slave. He wonders of others: that grand denial; that fevered screaming; the news throughout intuition; to favor certain parts, as if the others are dying, a cell confused by introjects; for why the madness, for one that yearns the good, seated in a chair of infusions; where darkness isn’t shy, to interrupt rituals, to increase heartwaves. He couldn’t but feel it: that shattered mirror, that rabid laughter, shadowed in the rudest gestures; to morph into power, as one known by the gods, as trailing Elijah. The riddle is there, as stated plainly, for eyes to receive; for they hear, but what have they heard; and they see, but what have they seen. It’s different for some: we live it, as to die through it, as to arise a new creature. He found for favor, to reap for hells, a cell away from demons. This couldn’t be life, seated in strife, as one loved by God; so what for reality, this feeble invite, where assertion rests quietly?