The Split

Every split is a doorway home

Humans have learned that to be fragmented is to be safe

We break off little pieces of ourselves to be worthy, acceptable, palatable in a world that is flavorless

Safe in a world of ticky tacky little boxes

And with every fragment tucked away, we lose touch with our humanity because we become echos of truth

Forgotten to ourselves

That we are each unique expressions of the divine wrapped in skin and bones

Different as night and day, as radiant as the sun itself

These fragments then play out as distortions in our lives that really fuck shit up

Because we then contort and perform to deal with the discomfort of cutting off parts of ourselves

So the discomfort becomes the portal back to remembrance

Wholeness

The ache of disowning our truth

The edge of our divinity dulled

But ever more insistent because what is will never not BE

We simply are

The more fucked up we feel, the more we are blunting our radiance

Like, if you put a water balloon on the end of a spigot and turn it on, it will eventually explode

Such is the human condition -

Explosion of radiance,

Masked in distortion

Begging to be unleashed

Fully alive, turned all the way on, all the way up