Queen of Swords

I keep trying to extract a something from a someone which isn't there. How much longer am I going to extract that which does not exist in the other? Do you understand the work involved in extracting a single drop of oil from a rose? And this isn't even a rose. I speak of a being, a person, our fellow neighbours and friends. Why am I always left empty handed? Why are these hands always left dry? Why do I continue to look for that which is absent, obsolete, non-existent? What futility. And far worse than disappointment.

This expansion of the heart - I wish someone would have told me long ago what that entailed. I would have wiped that stupid grin from my face. What naivety. Be gone with her. Do you have any idea what it's like to mourn for the world? To feel his pain? Her loneliness? His despair? Her faithlessness? Do you understand what this is like for me? To be sitting in a tub every night for the past six months, crying for God knows who and what and why? And to receive no answers? To surrender to the idea that this expansion is simply for my own good? Do you know how utterly lonely this can feel like? I'm the only one moving on this fucking road. The rest just sit there with their useless and paralyzing thoughts, their dreams, nothing but unfulfilled memories - no flame, no fire. They all went up in smoke before they had a chance to breathe. I wish they'd fucking wake up. I wish Jesus would let me sleep a little while longer.

Be weary of folks who take you to the well but then don't know how to quench your thirst. They don't even make attempts to reach our depths because they are shallow and afraid of their own shadows. I'm so tired of this weakness, this broken heart, this isolation, this alienation. They are not becoming. Not for some idealized dream, nothing but some sand castle in the clouds. I yell to bring it down. Please, bring it down. Why can you not be real? Why must you be with me and not with them? I spit in your eye every time because you are a fake. But I am not left unscathed. When I hurt you, I hurt myself.

And I dislike very much for having trusted you/myself? I wanted you to be real. I held the mirror up every time, as Crowley said, and each time I did, I saw my own disillusionment. I saw what wasn't there. All the lack. I saw what would never be. And this was like poison in my blood. I fought hard against it, resisted its subtleties at every turn. You would have been proud but I was only fooling myself. There was no strength in the world that could stop the inevitable - the slow but sure death of illusion.

You think me a cynic? Blame the sword. It is he who speaks now. Finally. Let it cut through everything. Let it all bleed. Let me smell the stench of my own falseness. Let me wash it away with a single stroke. Let me wipe this slate clean. Fill my vessel with the pure. Let the light of every star burn that which is destructive to my nature, my essence. I beg thee. I beg thee. Let me be heard. No more of this. I can do without the drama. Drama distracts me from the real, and yet in the same breath, it draws me closer to you. How can this be? How?