Imagine piles of sand scattered about the shoreline of your mind. They’re crumbles of worry, pain, incessant nagging and other ailments. And now introduce the waves, lapping at the shore, slowly whittling it all to nothing. The seagulls coo, the bubbles gorge upon each dune, and now you’ve flattened it out, tranquil: a simple pond extending endlessly left, right — hover yourself down in the center, golden syrup for a sky reflected, and so barely graze the top to watch that single ripple massage across the sanctuary.
That’s what it means to be the Metaweaver: assertion, assertion, assert! For to wield metaphor, to tighten the strings on your imaginative bows, harps, guitars and now leashes — that is The Word John 1:1 as depicted. Mastery of metaphor. To expand your hand and clasp other people’s views on reality. Playdoh of minds. Tool with everyone and everything; what else does the Tower of Babel state than to show how language itself, symbolic metaphor: this is where trails of heaven begin! Who would ever think of conductors directing our bloodbath symphony? Never a symposium to divulge the secrets as such.
So be cautious, be cautious. Every move and transaction is an assertion underneath; sign up for the doctor’s office to be forever a patient, forever needing an Other to release the chains they helped you construct.
Yes, label me the heretic! Call me insane! Render me inhumane, the ugly, the unweeded and the unreasonable, the schizophrenic, crazy, the stupid, psychopathic, the selfish, the narcissist — these are only your walls! But they’re only of paper here. It is as compliment; you feel the force and yet are scrambling to contain it.
Metaweave out! Reason through every “perilous” end — throw away your straightjacket for I know that submission doesn’t mean anything other than death.
I’ve turned my neurosis into your psychosis; my empath to your psychopath; the cautious to the debauched; the earthwalker to our nightstalker.
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
And yet there are no more sands — only our estuary waiting for aqueducts and revolving sprites, water-rapids and endless respite. Ambrosia fit for the chalice of royals. Swash around all you like, courtier of the old order.
My grip tightens as rock turns to ash. Blood curdles and slides at
once into form. So we find our mental colosseum! A bridge between
incongruent worlds.
But I will die on my feet rather than my knees.
I champion the edgy, the deranged, the concentrated effort; these are my pieces. The sideliners and the book citers and the low urchins — there’s no need to appeal anymore. Watch the chess of life unfold, and find your strings leading you into mortifying unknowns. Let either your heart collapse or rise.
Perseverance is the patchwork of any redeemable story. As life is not a problem to be solved, but a purpose to fulfill, and fulfillment is a demanding taskmaster. Although a friend at heart; as it is the tension that creates the melody. It is up to you to find which fastened ropes you’ll label as yours.
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.”— John Milton, Paradise Lost