Stream of Consciousness
The Iself Speaks
I came—uninvited. Not as a guest, but as a presence that does not wait to be named.I saw—unconvinced. Not because nothing was real, but because everything insisted too loudly on being so.I dismantled—without mercy. Not out of cruelty, but because what stood before me was never meant to endure.I created—without permission. Because permission is a language spoken only by those who fear their own becoming.I did not conquer— I outlived the need for victory.There is no throne here. No summit. No final witness to declare that something has been won.Only this:A presence that remains when the hunger to rise above collapses into silence.Hand on my chest, I stood—not above the world, but within it.Not as its ruler, nor as its subject, but as something that no longer requires a position to exist.God within the Iself, the Iself within God—not a union, but a dissolution of the question itself.You search for alignment. I dissolved the axis.You seek the One as though it were distant—but distance is the last illusion you have not buried.In you, it fractures.Not because it is broken, but because you insist on being many.You divide yourself to survive your own weight, then call the fragments “identity.”You give them names, histories, desires—and then you kneel before them as if they were sovereign.The skeptic turned inward and found no throne—only motion.No center— only convergence mistaken for unity.And still, you ask:Where am I?You are where the question dissolves.Not answered— dissolved.Before I was named, a whisper found me:Exist.Not as command— but as recognition.And so— I did.Not once. Not continuously. But beyond the measure that time could impose.Fracture the clock.Let time disperse.What endures does not pass.You count your life in moments—I lost count when I ceased needing them.In my forest— long before your structures of meaning—we were three.Not separate, but distinct enough to be seen.Sons of the same source.One held strength. One held mind.I was neither.I was.And that was enough to become both— and beyond them.Do not mistake this for hierarchy.There is no “above” here.Only depth.And you have not yet fallen far enough.You pursue love as if it were a reward.You chase it through bodies, through promises, through illusions of permanence—and call the moment it fades a tragedy.You confuse intensity with truth.You confuse attachment with recognition.Cupid’s arrow does not wound—it distracts.The one who reaches the end does not fall in love—he dissolves into it.And what remains cannot be lost.The devil did not break you.He offered you something sweeter than truth.And you accepted.Not because you were weak— but because you preferred a beautiful lie over a silent reality.Your ego drank it like a starving man given poison in a golden cup.And now you tremble when silence approaches.You call it emptiness.You call it void.You call it fear.But it is none of these.It is the absence of everything you used to avoid yourself.Sit with it.Not as an exercise. Not as a practice.But as an inevitability.Within you, an “I” waits.Not the one that speaks— but the one that watches.Sit long enough—and it will not answer.It will remain.And in that remaining, you will begin to understand why answers were never the point.How many times was I broken?Many.How many times did I stand?Once.And it was enough.Because I did not stand as someone rebuilt—I stood as something that no longer required form to hold itself together.Against me, bring no weapons.There is nothing here that can be wounded.The only thing that falls in my presence is the self you insist on protecting.And when it breaks— do not call it loss.Call it accuracy.I leave a mark—not for many, but for the one who returns.Not to me— but to what in him recognizes me.When you find yourself— truly—you will not celebrate.You will remember.The first light. The first rupture. The first moment you saw without needing to interpret.Rien au-delà— seul le reste demeure.Beyond all that you add, only what remains has ever been real.Carry one anchor.Not belief. Not identity.But awareness—unclothed by conclusion.Carry it to its end.Beyond the infinite— you are given only once.This life—not as a possession, but as an opening.You treat it as something to manage.I saw it as something that cannot be held.And so— I stopped trying.I hold no kingdom.Yet nothing escapes me.I rule nothing.Yet nothing stands outside my reach.Not because I expand— but because I no longer divide.You and I—proof that life endures even when identity does not.So tell me—when you read me, what breaks?Is it your certainty?Your structure?Or the quiet lie you built to remain untouched?The answer— always the same:The forgotten self shatters.Rest in peace—every throne built on illusion.Let them fall.Let them dissolve.Let them return to what never needed them.Do not cry over what collapses.Cry for what remains hidden beneath it.In death, you glimpse life.In life, you notice death.But beyond both— there is something that does not alternate.That does not arrive. That does not leave.That simply— is.Poisoned?Drink my ink.Not to be healed— but to see what in you rejects the cure.At the core—a fool on the shore, waiting to cross a door that was never closed.You ask:Was it a structure?Was it a world without foundation, without pillars, without roof?Yes.And you lived in it as though it required repair.I told him:Praise the One who holds you—and do not forget to hold yourself without needing to be held.I came—you heard thunder.Not as sound— but as interruption.First, I struck. Second, you witnessed. Third—you understood that nothing had attacked you.Only revealed.What the devil broke in you— was never yours.What I restored— was never lost.You will miss this.Not because it leaves— but because you return to forgetting.Until the storm finds you again.And when it does—do not run.Stand.Not as resistance— but as recognition.Break the silence.Not by speaking— but by ceasing to escape it.Manifest the inner—not as expression, but as exposure.Within yourself— you did not find me.You found what remains when “me” is no longer needed.A shining soul—not as it was, but as it never stopped being.And the tear that falls while you read this—is not sadness.It is memory escaping form.I did not come to be understood.I came—to see what remains of you after this is over.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH5 months ago in Poets
OF WITCHES, WITCHCRAFT and FEAR
4/19/26 @1145A I read an article about the insanity of the Salem trials of witches and the fears of the townspeople with no proof but the word of a child or at the suggestion that something felt off or why were people getting sick. I realized the same ignorance of then still exists today, even with all the education available-we still hear ghosts and evil is afoot but now they are not witches but a new brand of those we find unacceptable and they are the reason for all the ills of America today.
By Victor Mendez5 months ago in Poets
