See Them Going Mad and Dead as Dolls Without a Soul.
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Words have started to go missing. They always do, they always do.
Between racing and waiting to become alive, ritually throwing death of the illusion and the air which crosses you and me, I choose going on. It’s full of dead roses and thorns, and the walking dead, now gone speechless. I have nothing left to say. The night is fighting time and the moon is fighting for me to become something I have never been. Time is going heavy, someone needs to kill it.
You see, I am not the classical maiden wandering the woods, but an actual warrior out of the modern times, made of epic epochs and the moon. I don’t need the forest to be wandering around because I am made out of it, as much as I am made out of the city.
As much as death crowns me queen of the dead, as the not yet dead die.
I dive into more emotional waters. A new solstice… a new night. And many more creatures who haven’t met their death yet. But death stands above them and all skies. One always looks small to the gods, no matter the concept. Once maidens inherited the force of creation, and during the great wars they lost belief into the same very force which let them be alive, seen, not lost into vulgar waters of infestation.
Many are the tales of the forest, and these stories sum up into the morals of knowing. It’s not a world for the ordinary, it is not. The morals of the ordinary are changeable. Not fit for the light. What is left without the collective? Without the commune?
What is left when you stand by yourself in the dark forest and the dry spirits are there to show to you what is there to be without the plasticity of an ideal self-created by agonizing people? I can’t walk on dry roads which have abandoned me long ago. I can’t. It’s stupid and grotesque.
Many folk tales come around, spirits lie in agony in the endless trying to belong. Mortals mortified on dead flames sing dead languages as dead as they are.
The collective, the public, lie in the agony of repeat. In the agony of the absence of truth. Of course. Where the collective loses identity and becomes the substance of the masses. The masses are substantial. Blind as fish into the depth of oceans. Dark deep within. Lost and found.
What is identity? What are the masses? Small particles of human consciousness? Or are they the subconscious of some higher understanding?
I understood that my pain was illogical. All the verses have gone to the sea. I thought it would be different this time. But time has ceased to give us chances and you just can’t see that. In a turn or two, I will stand up in my throne as I used to. The oracles breathe from the moon within me. A new wind with the smell of fire promises that this wheel shall be broken as the other one before. Freedom exchanging pain.
I see it better now. Are these new lenses or have you come back to revive hurt?
My territories breathe fire as I exchange hurt for freedom. Misconceptions misfire, missing the whole truth because you just can’t see me as I wholly am, which brought us the sin. I am honestly tired of all of you, and I hope you leave me alone so I can breathe. Human creatures begging for a little attention, a little bit of light, a glimpse of vivid energy, because they are all dead.
Dead and led by animistic creatures deader than them, in the world of the dead. But isn’t the wheel so poetically right? Praying to the dead and then becoming the dead to be led by. Drop-dead circles, cut into inexistence. Nonexistence. Not oblivion, but not being or being there to suffer as the whole morals of mortality. Being there to experience suffering. As it is.
Again, I don’t believe in love as metamorphic as yours, a love changeable as the tides of time. Well before coming to Earth, I decided to leave you for another. The end. As the moon trespasses Mercury to meet Mars, veils die confirming that it is not the moon running for Mars which makes me run for myself, it is me being the moon which is running for herself in the dark, by being the whole darkness.
Crowning myself in full darkness, where the light is substantial. How can you pretend to love me, where you don’t see love as the dark creatrix she is?
And the light itself?
No.
What I don’t have is trust. And maybe you shall start to see me for the greatness I inhabit, with my essence never being of substantial use.
Again, I before couldn’t choose me, but now it’s all over. As the ones who live against me, and breathe against me and the moon, can’t you see them screaming? Can’t you see them going mad and dead as the dolls without a soul? Thinking they can possess or pretend as you holding your pretenses of platonic love to me. I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t be Alice while you hold on being the white rabbit because I am the queen of the dark forest. As you write the tales of absence, I am burning the books and leaving. Life doesn’t give you second chances, it doesn’t. It is a lie well-performed, but as irrelevant as the blade of a mortal.
Mortals, as they move through lost dimensions, repeat themselves. But it is a story of naked authenticity, as I am not you, not any longer. I am made of other patterns manifesting themselves in truth. Away from worldly moments, there is not a meaning except choosing myself and my wolves, which once were yours too but now tides are breaking chains as old as the beginning of this earth itself.
And being in vain is no longer an option. I need my time to breathe as it is, so stop projecting onto me what can never be: vulgar mortality.
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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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