The DM13 Journal
When we let go of our crippling desire to be understood by the herd, and decree Self-Sovereignty, we begin to ascend toward the liberating heights of Self-mastery.
Keep drinking from that golden chalice in the meantime, and never apologize for any spilt ambrosia from your sweetened lips–the gods will exalt you.
I am The Impeccable One–anointed to thrust His sword.
I am The DragnMastr–DragnMastr13–and I am mastering the shadow serpent within, having slain The Great Dragon clad in red, black, and white scales of deception.
I have walked alongside The Grim Reaper, looked over the eternal cliffs of dreamless sleep, and hardened Myself against the vertigo of looming death.
The outcome?
A metamorphosis of mind–I am a mountain.
Nothing can move Me.
Nothing can shake Me.
Nothing can diminish Me.
And yet, I have been moved. I have been shaken. I have been diminished.
But I am a blackhole–swallowing the fears, doubts, and insecurities that cross My event horizon–infinitely in a state of expansion.
It was the late afternoon, and I was sitting at the base of My favorite tree, admiring the lush tapestry of interwoven wolf lichen that adorned its aristocratic exterior.
I enjoyed closing My eyes and feeling the velvet-green, fungal textile in-between My fingers–it possessed the lifeblood of the immemorial, with a simplicity of anatomy that was designed to endure epoch upon epoch.
When I opened My eyes she was reclining before Me, inviting My essentia into her ribcage, tempting Me to grasp at her heart. Our gazes interlocked, and I felt a cruel sensuality whisper into My right ear–My Otitis Externa was gone, and so were My inhibitions.
I laid there, with My head to the side, as he suctioned the moisture out of the offending ear. He was using a foreign instrument, and a knowledgable hand.
There were times when he simply needed to prod areas inside that suffered from tenderness, and when he did so I would grimace with an innocuous fear.
During the benign procedure, I couldn't help but to wonder if she cared about My moist ear as much as the people in those rooms whose purpose in life it was to care about moist ears.
Because if your lover doesn't care about the moisture in your ear, then in due time they will cease to care for the rest of you.
Little girl–chasing popularity, squirming for approval. I see right through you.
Your insecurities are blatant–glaring even. Who are you trying to impress? Your followers? Followers?! Do you really think they give a FUCK about you?
No.
What they came to see is a free show as they churn their meat, scrolling through an endless flesh feed in their available hand.
Exposed vanity–a consequence of her anxiety at being alone with no reassurances, no feedback, no likes, no chatter.
Silence.
She makes social media her life's work, setting her foundation on shifting sands. But vanity rusts artlessly in an air of mediocrity.
It's been an unacceptable amount of time since I've last seen you–obscene almost, in its length.
How I long to trace the slender contours of your feline body with My hard desire.
I've heard it said to love in such a way that the person you love feels free, but I refuse to adhere to such docile beliefs. My Dionysian Spirit chuckles disdainfully at harmony and balance–It feeds on frenzied obsession, and Kitten, you are Mine.
Take My hand, and allow yourself to free fall into the unchartered depths of your shadow depravity.
ACCEPT.
When you knew Me, I was but a cowering, hibernating plant–abounding splendors lying dormant within the greyness of My obscurity.
And your mistake was in assuming that the sun would never reach Me.
But I'm here to tell you that, I'm blooming Bitch.
So you think you know Her?
HA!
You vile and ignorant cockroach!
You insignificant sycophant excrement!
Foul and debased is your petty existence!
For She is The Flexilis Pupa, and Her essence cannot be reduced and categorized by your paltry understanding.
She is beyond definition; She is a spectrum of Self–sparkling identities that effervesce and tickle the backside of your undeserving tonsils, as you drink from your dog bowl on the floor–Her spiked heel atop your menial, misshapen skull.
NOW DRINK.
Through the burrows of subterranean consciousness, the bellowing surges forward, headfirst, in search of light, in search of an open amphitheater to project it's primal cry–an ancient lost art among the modern-day herd.
In the clammy depths of water, you will approach an understanding of the profound essence of death, and what it would be like to demise from this terrestrial existence, one immersed in the habit of breath.
Breathe deep.
Breathe now.
For your inspirations will expire soon enough.
Solar flares bayoneting the sleep of zephyr spheres, beyond the bounds of inept de-virgining teens, as they thrust and heave in the shadows of a forest over yonder.
Malpenetrations–all fair within the fabric of time and space, although, both are specters of reality–hallucinations, of the common man.
It is true–I am a scavenger. However, I search not for food, but for beauty. And there is a certain nobility to my pursuits.
My detractors bite with stolen teeth, but I come to bring smiles.
Behold, the Lord GOD helps Me; Who is he who condemns Me? Behold, they will all wear out like a garment; The moth will eat them.
Isaiah 50:9
