The Book of the Dead.

Sowilo.

I have eaten the sun, I have taken the cup and thrown it.

I am the flood,
I am the wind that breaks the bough.

This snake has two heads,but one of them is dead.

A dead bird offstage, a child screaming.

I am that which I was before; I was blood, bone and skin.

No vision will awaken it,
nor somber words of help,
no comfort with the cherry blossoms,
for Its beauty is dying here.

And when it is all over, when there is no light and no shadow, nor decisive will left, know that I will be there still.

ソウィロ。

私は太陽を食べ、杯を取って投げ捨てた。

私は洪水、
私は枝を折る風。

この蛇には二つの頭があるが、片方は死んでいる。

舞台裏の死んだ鳥、泣き叫ぶ子供。

私は以前の私だ。私は血と骨と皮膚だった。

どんな幻もそれを目覚めさせることはできない。
陰鬱な助けの言葉も、
桜の花の慰めも。
なぜなら、その美しさはここで死につつあるからだ。

そしてすべてが終わり、光も影も、断固たる意志も残されなくなったとき、私はまだそこにいることを。

Gravitate to the light among the darkness, among the dust, dirt, and ash.
That I could be something more than a fleeting moment of energy, of something just passing through.

More than a breathe not broken but that I could steal the moment; that each thing knows "I was here."
More than a clay figure,
or the sandman's dream.
That I had something to say, that I was something more than lights and noise. That my thoughts were something.
Wishful perhaps I am, but still.

That I am more than this body that will give out on me, or my individual sense of self, or identity.
That something wonderful entered
this world, and something wonderful will leave it.

Settled in my skin and rest these tired bones,
find comfort in such an uncomfortable world.

Skip a beat; heart loses its rhythm.
The mind; loses its thoughts,
and when the self is all but gone,
only the idea remains.

Hand me this cup and expect me not to drink from it, should I also not take a bite of that apple in front of my face?

So when beaten; why be so surprised that I bleed?
For however humanless I feel; I still suffer like the rest of you.

So of course I seek escapism,
what do you expect?
If you have nothing but the places your mind takes you, you would want to escape too.

No balance,
No scales,
No freedom,
No will.

No justice,
No peace,
No unity,
No dream.

No hope,
No change,
No forgiveness,
No way.

No future,
No rights,
No statements,
No life.

Peel me off like a label,
Rub me out like a stain,
Just erase me and start over,
I'll be your notepad, everything is ok.

Sugar is sweet,
But honey is sweeter,
Enough is never enough.

I guess you don't know you have limits,
Like twins; Jinx! because neither do I.

Not a care in the world, singing along to our favorite songs, pretending that the world doesn't suck at all.

There is never a tomorrow in our heads, it is just snapshots, like polaroids where we live.
Landlines with shoes on them, shopping carts in our neighborhood, playing cards with no tens, reading magazines in the store because we could never afford to buy a thing.

Weekend cartoons, sadness was called the blues, mixed cereals in butter bowls,Kool aid with too much sugar, pickles and chips from a lady on the corner.

Games we don't remember, stories I made up, wearing overalls because I hated the way I looked.

And now all I want to do is start over,
Travel back to a time that made sense, more human less machine,
to somekind of peace.

It's hard to find any positivity within my life.
I am surrounded by darkness, and every time I find even the smallest glimmer of light, it is ripped away from me.
My smile is torn away from my face.
As is my sleep, my routine, and my hope.

Tell me what is there?
But death to wish for?
When everything else is just pain, suffering and insanity.
Just induced insomnia because no one cares to let me sleep.

Waking at ungodly hours, but I am the one called a demon.
They leave me with nothing but anger, and I will not repeat myself.

Tell me what's the point in trying for better, when everything around me is rotten?
Am I supposed to be a diamond among the trash?
Wasteful.

Now why should I care if nothing else does?
What does freedom mean to me, if I am without peace?
Am I to continue to play nice?
Until what?
Until I break?
Fall?
Or until my head cracks beyond repair?

Will death not claim me before I am no longer me, before it's too late to spare even the demons?
Yes well, hell is hell I guess; either way I go; the fork in the road doesn't matter.

I laid by the bedside and to the self destruction inflicted upon my own self, split as I am; into one who wants to live, and the other who doesn't.
And darkness kisses the faces of the dead, but the sun hugs the faces of the one's who live.
Eidetic isn't it?
The dark ones like us who see it?
I am not hermetic in the words I say, for if you understand it; then there is no mysticism.
But I would be belied if I didn't admit that it is esoteric.

My life is surely hermetic, it is not at all aesthetically pleasing,there is nothing well-favored here, anyone who understands the death I speak of must at least quaver with their own reason about it.

We are not free.
From the moment we take our first breath, we are bound and weighed by our shell, to its needs, to its every whim.

Suffering is the art of life, and we are its painter.
Death is only a means to an end, when the masterpiece is finished.

They say when death calls
you can't hang up.

When it's your time, it's your time.

I grew up with a lot of old timey sayings, ideas and superstitions.
There was always this sense of fate, of things being written, whether you believed it to be by god or not.

There was always this idea that somethings will happen no matter what you do.
That freedom can only walk so far.

I'm not sure if I believe in fate, or anything else for that matter.
But I do know that everything has It's limits, sooner or later this life will find mine.

I do tend to feel at times angry or like I've been cheated out of life, when I think about all the things I'll never see, or get to do.

But most of the time; I feel like I did what I needed to do.

I found myself, who I really am, a non binary, non gender confirming being.
I worked through years of trauma as I unlocked my memories, I busted my butt off on healing and forgiveness for myself and my inner child.
I did more in half a year than some people do in a lifetime.

That's not to say that I'm not sad about it, as I am always on that side of things.
But there is a peace to it too, like I did what I was meant to do.
I survived, that's all I needed to do.

I write for the future generations now, maybe a hundred years from now;
something I said will change someone else's life.

I do know that nothing is forever, but death and taxes as they say.
But perhaps our creations of words and songs cannot be called away, perhaps those things are forever too.