Mystic, Empath, Shaman, Reiki Practitioner, Exorcist, Occultist, Poet, Writer, Healer, and Hermit. I am called many things, by many names, with many titles, but you may call me Docyele. I practice many different paths and observe all I see.
A Calloused Man
A Calloused Man Now time is a fickle thing, a creature bereft of mercy, bent on keeping us trapped in its paradox. Like three fates holding our thread between their spindly, crooked fingers ready to sever our continuum at a heart's beat. One sister, whom we shall name the Maiden, wishes to keep us contained in our repetition compulsions, knowing all too well how to ensnare us within moments of pain and regret. She is the bane of the young child, the gate keeper of the calloused man. The other sister, whom we shall name the Mother, has stepped into the ether to await both the child and the man. Constantly observe, she does, for this is her nature. The oldest and wisest of all the sisters, whom we shall name the Crone, plagues the calloused man by giving him dreams that have yet to come giving him hope for Mother who has yet to pour her compassion on his poor soul. The Crone is of no concern to the child, he does not yet know the Maiden, and the Mother is all he sees.
An Ode to a Story Untold
An Ode to a Story Untold In a time, immemorial, and a place outside the sphere of time itself, lie the forgotten origins of lost beginnings still etched into the void. A place not by definition, for that is a mere mortal term. A time that is before time was conceptualized. Nothingness, but not as we know it, quivers and writhes formlessly.
Nothing. That is all there was, yet what it was couldn’t quite be defined as nothing. Black, then a kaleidoscope of colorful geometric patterns playing tricks behind the eyelids as if they were living portraits from the creative mind of a mathematician. A duality of individual kaleidoscopic folds of geometry—one for each eye experienced simultaneously.