Time to Face Death Again: A Midfall Midnight’s Chronicle.
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“Immortalize me,” the maiden said to the moon, “immortalize me…”
One of the nights longing for the equinox, I came to breathe the night and the Moon, and the light of my candles.
As the night comes back to take her territory, I came to understand that this city is like you. Cold and grey. Hidden from the epic. Hidden from love. In self-denial. Building weird structures meant to be inhabited by breathing creatures. As much as you go against this city, the more I understand…
As much as both I and you go against this walled forest, the more I understand that we are going against our own walled feelings.
The city is disastrous, but we continue to walk on this numbed ex-forest.
Days before the equinox, it is time to face death again. But when you have become her, what is left there to face?
On these autumn days, I sit on the shore, letting all that needs to fall, fall. I came to understand the city is a forest too, numbed but still a dark forest. And as his streets and creaturas (the Latin for creatures) move in vain, through oblivion, I feel the ages moving within me. Yes indeed, I am still all the queens I used to be and yes, the priestess and the beast moving together, scratching time together under the flames of the candles lit to honor the goddesses on the long autumn nights.
You see, the city is a very differentiated thing from the sea. Both belonging to the same thing. The sea is full of essence. A holy essence still allowing vile creatures to build their habitat In there till… the next big wave to exterminate it all that has been structured.
The sea has all kinds of sounds… Sometimes mesmerizing music comes from the depths absorbing you to love states, till the next wave of awakeness abruptly takes over.
What’s left, you would ask?
The sea still, without the intuitive underlying love state.
And we can stay on the edge of un-love, trying to reach for the mesmerizing music of love, on the cold shore, watching the waves come and go, denying the delusion, writing philosophical verses on it, but the shore stays cold and my memory also.
Of course, time is substantial, but the will is made out of immortality.
I can sing over the coldness of the shore and my heroic acts on the long lonely autumn nights. I shall sing to remember love is made out of war too. And no mesmerizing sound can build truth. I shall need to write a lot of the rocky cold substance of this shore, so even when the careless sounds come out of the sea to absorb me, I shall have this tiny piece of memory to hold me against them. Memory does not need to be subdued. Memory awakens when old impulses run back and forth towards your life. And it is there. The coldness of the shore is there.
No denial.
No fantasy off the shores.
Again. No fantasy of how great it all could’ve been. We both know what it was. Substances and essences portraying reality can’t lie. Of course, we can discuss perceptions, on the way we percept the overall of it all. The apple falls into black liquid. My wishes see the light out of the sea.
The candles are lit. My prayers are living manuscripts. It is me and this breath again. Me and the manuscripts. Me and The Book of the Dead. Me and the moon being one as before the fall.
The wheel turns. It has turned before but I couldn’t feel it within me.
Numbed feelings and sensations. The beast doesn’t do that. The beast brews her emotions, and even if mortals judge her as aggressive and scary, she is sacred and immortal. She needs her time to be understood.
And you didn’t take that time. That’s why you face the beast, the huntress. She who walks within this numbed forest, within his tales, rising with the veins of Earth. This need to feel alive through the cycles is immortal. All the wolverines within me sing to the moon. They need the vulgar to extinct too.
Or are you coming back home, with me, my priestess, and the wolves?
Within me breathes the beast and the priestess. Both lacking vulgarity and vulnerability. Both lacking anxiety and care for acceptance. Unapologetically breathing from the same lungs as this planet. The unsacred dies.
And, I… I got to live.
I move within the tales and they move with me. I feel the pulse of time. I will laugh a thousand years with the failed tries of my enemies to bring me down.
On the equinox night, I will invoke the Sacred to kill the vulgar, as it always does. As the great wolf kills its prey. As the spirits fly around the space, as omens do too.
Stay in the dark… You haven’t seen what’s coming yet. The Sacred Beasts are awakening.
One day or another, one moment or another, I shall learn how to breathe, I shall learn how to let go of the past, and let time fall. Let time break. Let all the moments I don’t need anymore and the moments which don’t need me anymore die. And they do fall and break, no matter if they are made of glass or stone.
Deep in the jungles the birds of prey sing. The veins of this earth filled with fire and rage oscillate through time till they meet the red skies me and all the ones in love with the veins of this Earth are waiting for — the time of the Red Hawk, under the red skies.
The Great Red Hawk shall scratch the skies and I will finally fly off with him, to where I can breathe. I am in love with my independence. I am in love with my words flying in the absence and coming alive in the red skies. I am in love with my own longing for the moon. As she becomes me and I become her. We were never really separated. As the run of the white wolverine finding the perfect geometrical position under the moon to sing her hallowing verses to the Creatrix, the Great Goddess, my heart runs too, and she is neither afraid nor cold any longer. She is firm and knows how to fight and win.
As we walk on the mortal ground, I have released my pain, all of it, and you… I wish you could tell who the predator is. I am not alone, nor misunderstood anymore. I am trying to exchange verses, this time with Vesta, to learn to hold my ground and understand that the one who leaves doesn’t hold the fault always. But I am the one to decide with whom to stay. Near whom to breathe and with whom to chase the mornings. Once tired creatures of the darkness created the vulgar, the mediocre, but Quetzalcoatl rose from the sun and brought the epic epochs back, all over this creation we call Earth.
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Ina Gjata is a moon-lover, art critic, journalist, painter, and life-lover, who’s been published on “The House of Twigs”. She is passionate about the wild feminine and wild creatures, and doesn’t do well with system rules, regulations, and lies. A born rebel being, she believes real truth is inside us all and that writing is a piece of the great truth, meant to be told, and manifested.
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