Intuition

Settled down at the glance and the thought of life

Felt currents like electric spark from my core

Isolation center around a waking surge

A vibration that propels into the throat chakra.

Keep the energy inconspicuous, never swaying to either poles

Your throat will either absorb the impulses

or it may continue it’s journey towards the chest

The hollow cave of intuition, where your heart lies

Oh, what a feeling of radiating emotions

knit and knock in your bones and joint space there after

Your heart weighs with a message from the universe

while your charitable heart banishes it to the bowels

Metabolism fastens or sluggers, then settles

between the groins, a belt tightens around hips and lower back

Feel the moon spread across the sky’s edges

dare to subtract the edge it has over you

For people who sense the slightest imbalances,

energies of the galaxy and of kindred

may sound abnormal, but is it really?

dubbed empaths or highly sensitive, for whatever reason

For us the full moon is more like a reckoning

Anything but smooth sailing it is

feelings too scary to explore, spur up

the dark side of my soul bullies me to submission

Yell as you wish, the influence grows worse

like a family reunion, where the black sheep is king

spritz me with venom and engulfs me whole

Until I am gurgling on it’s dark influence

Neptune knows, intuition cannot be bargained with

gifts dreams you can sip with your soul out a straw

or sardonic skies that taunts you at your weakest

But when my forehead kisses the ground,

every turmoil is hushed in universal harmony

Therefore I am

With each fleeting moment, I am confronted by what is, and what isn’t. This is seemingly a colloquial thought, one might argue that the things we see and feel  are meant to be and that’s it. If we allow ourselves to reach beyond our psyche and tap into unprecedented knowledge,  it may become more feasible that ‘what is’ stems from what exists as much as what is felt, and the interfacing harmony of it. It is the interpretation of time, space, and soul  as the core of our existence.  It is something that is intangible and unquestionably fleeting. It is what René Descartes summed up in five words.

There was a time that I thought being imaginative was a delirious habit. I’d stare at a blanc wall and a tumultuous mind would recreate that wall in the most alluring, pristine way and even add dimensions to it. Whether I realised it then, or not, this was a form of  existing consciousness. Then along came the Ego, the imposter I assumed to be the real me, he’d coax me into believing how awful that imagination was.

Of course he’s right, it’s only a boring wall.

Except that it’s not. It’s whatever I want it to be because I could seat in the core of the soul, where distilled emptiness and silence  harmonises the wall to my creative desire. In a way, it is a knowledge that redefines artistry and philosophy, including writing. Therefore, I employ us to tap into that seat of consciousness, never-mind what the Ego thinks. It isn’t real, but you are.  Your mind can either establish or annihilate you, and I believe that in our own little world, we can be heroes.