Tales of Tarots

Tales of Tarot

I need to cut my tongue. And voice. And my hands, and fingers. I have to burn my keyboard, cut and burn and smash whatever capable of communication. Cut! Gone! I need to reach the Death of thoughts, mow the essence of my passion, cut the unease with one, precise swing of sword; transform, renew and find an end to all this inner turmoil.

And to be sure, let's take no risks at all, let's be done with love, emotions, feels and thrills... Gone too. All packed and sealed into a thrown-away trash. No more flapping in the hurricane of sins.

Give me silence, I beg you life, a resting place of my hyperactive mind.

Hidden in the basement, in the freezer, forever iced I need to be. Because my eyes run towards the unknown, their will of discovery their only master. My feet, poor me, run following a Chariot who is said to be filled with victories, and so my hands, they too run upon the keyboard to tell of tales without a soul. And then a voice, mine, that runs after my hands for them to write of love and of Lovers all, and all the mysteries of their hearts who beat, and beat, and keep on beating...

I try; I try and try yet never win, no matter my commitment to beat it, my heart is always one beat ahead, even when it falls, and stumbles, or crumbles and aches, it never stops, it always wins as if filled with a destiny given by the Stars. The ones up high and beautiful. Eternal hint of joy.

Oh pain in me please freeze! My only chance to stop it. I have to freeze it. Cold and silent, ice; it will not beat again. It must release the chain of life I've been condemned to walk.

Oh yes please, Emperor of my mind, wisdom of thoughts please, be the one to bring me silence if life itself wants to forsake me. Let me become a lump, a Hermit of myself; isolated wisdom without will, without religion and without a Pope to force me into amoral thoughts.

Too intense the flames of knowledge, too strong the want to shine, to obliterate my will. The Empress willed my wisdom and keeps me pregnant with ideas. I cannot help but see it all lied out in front of me, her eyes I use to see.

But then again, what with my body? How can I cut it out from me? How do I it without severing the me that lives in it? And should I if I make it in bits, whatever's left will yet persist, it will keep asking me of me and from me want some more. It lives off me, and lives through me, its feeling and its pulsating and its dam beating... it will not care how small I cut it. It will still live!

My body at times lives its own life for it is not of flesh my life, it is the essence of the mold, the Fool who walks the edge of abyss, the glue holding the edges of free will, vague and transparent line within my form, the living one, the one reborn from ashes, from thoughts and from stories, the infinite tales living in me, screaming for whispers of joy.

Pure paradoxes of my life.

I find a million reasons why it is unnatural, impossible that life still runs in me, yet here it is, like new, stubborn author of my will flowing as it wishes: beating, beating, and beating some more. Beating in the space left by my cuts, my lesions, my trunks, beating as I tried to trash it, hiding it under the landfill, where the un-recycled live.

I tried to sell it to the Magician at the eastern fair, to the Santa Ana winds, yet once again, with more Strength than ever it came back. To me. Life looks at me in the eye, a High Priestess in all her glory, hypnotic gaze, wisdom and faith and there she goes, she laughs at my attempts as if I were a child.

Vane tries were mine.

She, life, moves my skin from inside out, the center of my chest, the bones in my thorax that once were ribs and now her hands, make way for her until cozy she lies down, within me, folded like a blanket entering my heart, strong of my attempts at getting rid of her she smiles and says "I'm home", then stretches out to take the reins of my own Chariot, the one I tried to use to run away.

And then once more, she remodels, opens, insists with filling me with passion, raw talent to be shaved as I go. I see her, I feel her. In my neck, now, no wait, she's in my throat, waiting for some vocals to be born, become sentences, new life all over again.

Now she's raising up into my head, a stranger hidden between mind and thoughts, the softest touch to my nerves and gone she is, a theft in the dark she now hides in my stomach, cave of steep emotions and thought-provoking earthquakes; ideas, stagnant troughs of hidden feelings. Get out of there!

Last thought of the night, first exhale of my morning.

Even my hands, the ones at night looking for me in a bed filled with fears, even they cannot find me, as I lie hidden between sheets of rigor, locked out wishes; too bright, too strong and too colorful to fill the breath of my life.

I tell her, I scream at her: "I am not home! Life, I'm not here," but only silence comes to answer. Yet it's obvious is it not? And logical; or maybe not, logical it's not but sure as hell it's obvious, my intent. I long for silence.

Unanswered. Filled with constant thunder from my life.

My life whole, convoluted intersections of a work in progress spent in exile from feelings, exile from savoring the flavors of life, filled with fear of my own blood, river of life in my veins. Desire and passion the palette held in my shaking hands, terrified of finding out all the life I can have.

And be.

But why? Why run from life if life itself will always follow, entangle its breath of love with every inhale I do? Why fear every gesture I already am? Every step I already took? Is it not complicated, convoluted and yes, even stupid to raise my spade against the very image my own mirror is reflecting? The I who is, the I alive, the I who's watering the seeds of all I live?

With all its love and Temperance life fills me with the fluid of life itself, the one I so unwisely fought by reading war while it wrote peace. The very life I have been running from is medicine for all my wounds, brought forward and translated from the mysteries of the occult. Clear and transparent it shimmers to me, now that I sit and stare at the folly of my journey without master.

The harvest is mine and always was, the one life feeds and flows through my own veins; abundance. I cannot burn anything that lives, or freeze it, or cut it out for it will never cease as it is me. It is the Wheel of Fortune, the World itself hugging my own needs, open, plentiful, complete.

The Sun brings light over my path and sends all shadows to their home: the upside-down Hung world of fears, illusions and martyrs.

Fighting feelings is not part of life, fighting emotions with blades is not what the Devil wants, it does not want us Hung with feet up in the air, it wants us down on Earth and live... I see this now, I feel it now... emotions are the breaths that teach our Strength of life how peace is not obtained through fight. It is a mastery of patience, inner Judgment and release, sight not blinded by the fake light of the Moon.

I am the one creating my own path by stepping feet on my own ground. I am my own Justice and as such I choose to live.

Creation and abundance multiply within, I feel it. Universal Judgment gives me a gift, it sets me free and lets me see the truth of me. Alive I am, survived the fight within my self I can now walk. The Sun is shining on my path to help me see the old, falling Towers of beliefs; mirrors of my fears and fragile of my lies.

I am, even if I do not search myself. There is no Death allowed where life is soaked with mysteries to unveil. Stories to become, roles to fill and share. No regrets for choices not made, and just like this, letting the river flow, I become one and it.

Eternal movement; still, in the instant of a breath, in the Arcane mystery which in a whisper I call life.