My sacred fire drives me wildly into consciousness – beauty is its fuel. Flames ripple up from my feet and over my lap, into my fingers and through to this keyboard.

I do not disperse myself. This is not an energy I am uncomfortable with sitting in indefinitely. This is me. Why be scared? And what of?

You do not seek out the boy in me and I do not wish to bring him to you. We exist for the God and the Goddess in each other. Revere them, in the few spaces we can find them, when they do not meditate silently in solitude away from seeking eyes.

Love is the fruit of the tree of discipline. I love myself, I love all living creatures. I love women, God I love women. I love them enough to live a life of discipline, to not indulge them at every whim, and to know when feminine influence ends and masculine direction begins. And when that tree bears fruit to feast like a King.

I do not write to please – I write to write. Not to please. So when I write to please, you may have that, and when I write to write it shall stay with me, dear Teacher. I am empty. Fill me.

This ancient soul has returned again and is unconvinced by the promise extolled by the posters they put up in public spaces. I wish, instead, only to right and write until all I’m left with is the shavings of a blunted eraser, corrected mistakes, and a life of power, art, and beauty. What will it take? I’m sure we’ll find out. Journey with me? Journey.

Ancient men rest idly with backs-to-wall in corridors that I prayerfully amble down, fitting myself into increasingly simpler spaces and becoming happier there. They watch as I pass, and I know they are here for me yet I cannot make out a familiar face. With discipline, however, I know too that time will unfold all life’s mysteries. Patience, then, is the test. So patiently, I wait.

I lay back in the mean time and watch the fruit ripen, becoming fat and plump with sweetness like a chair-bound emotional eater. Move slow. When the time comes: strike fast. In power, share the fruits of my patience. Victory is in each moment.

– M



Soft you may touch me with graces and airs and well placed smiles insinuated between winks and hair flicks. I have mistaken you. Beautiful shadow. Our eyes meet, I see you. I see me. Hello, loyal friend.

Hylas and The Nymphs (1896), John William Waterhouse

I once peeked behind the veil and threw mystery into the relief of light – looked back at my reflection in flesh in the dead of night, yet did not see the mirror.

I believed I had unveiled you. I believed you were distinct from myself – and, later, that in letting a sleeping dog lay, your mystery would remain more beautiful. And, still, a mystery you remain. Yet, thankfully,  I learn more of you each day. The more I learn of me the more I learn of you. I thank myself for your beauty, and thank you for your frankness, dear child. Let’s play.

Like the space that sits quietly and patiently between music notes on rickety old pianos, your presence in my life is pregnant with a divine wonder – my own, mirrored dumbly back at me.

You, woman, belong to a garden. There you would smell sweetly with the orchids, exploding spring-cherry trees and frangipanis. Kissing the air on its cheeks as it wafts by and upwind to me – rosy red. The garden ought to be your domain, and not a man’s bed. There you would be but smelled, picked and discarded like grey bath water when done. Yield to the sun, and not to your desire. Open to each day, and not to met expectations. Fall with the rest of the leaves come autumn, when it is time to do so. The God awaits you.

The sun has woken up from winter sleep, and beats down upon my back, doing the job of the sun. Just as the warrior awakens, now, from ignorant sleep. In discipline, I train. In fertile soil, I grow, and soon, too, will I join you in that garden where after blossoming we might die in union.

Between now and the illusion of that auspicious end (there is no ultimate death), I accept life as but a divine refinery, cold pressing me through stone-hard walls, shaving off my corners, and letting the excess drop to the floor at my feet as I am processed through perfection until, like a polished ball, I shine beautifully. I am reborn. I integrate. You disappear. You are integrated. The Man has arrived.

I want you in flesh but I do not need you and I take only what I need so you shall remain untaken by me. You will not be smelled, or picked, or discarded like fingernails. Instead I shall quietly honour you as I quietly honour myself: you will be cherished. In time, together, too, we will unravel ourselves like Christmas presents to each other. Having sat, waited and watched: the boy has disappeared, the Man, in turn, has passed – here, my love, is the God.

And now:
To us,

– M.

The Creation of Adam, c. 1511-1512, Michaelangelo



La Naissance de Venus (detail), 1862, Palais des Beaux-Arts de Lille. Amaury Duval.

Impetus for love, she will be, as if love needs an impetus. Of its own volition it should burst forth, like water from the mains, frothing at the mouth onto the street and caressing the tarmac like it’s missed it. But it doesn’t always, does it?

There are times when I look at the women around me, and through the eyes of a boy I am able to perceive of only girls. I live in this world of girlishness, and I know in truth that they only reflect my own inner boyishness back at me. Were I a MAN, I could look at a girl and see the WOMAN she is becoming, just as a Master may look at a seed and see the tree it is becoming or a log, and the fire already within. The potential coming to fruition.

Boy I may be, yet nonetheless I prepare. Each day sharpening the blunted sword of my perception. Cutting away anything unnecessary as I go. For I will need to be ready.

When my perception shifts, and I am able to view the world through the eyes of a man, it will not be long before a WOMAN will appear. A loving, cruel-bitch, goddess of a woman.

And when she comes for me I know she will come ready to unfold, murder and enlighten me and I will be ready for her. I will meet my death gracefully and be reborn from the ashes of us both as we burst a-cinder unto each other again and again in each moment together.

She will come with lust and serenity and chaos all at once in the pools of her eyes and show me why storms are named after people, and I will meet her there – at peace, unperturbed, ready to fill the vessel she has brought to me with love that she might be ready to accept that love and let it destroy her as beautifully as she destroys me.

Even in my destruction, at the very moment of my death – genuflecting lovingly before her – my inner lake will remain without a ripple. Stillness shall prevail in spite of the beautiful storm she brings to me to quell. Balance.

Until I am able to keep that lake as still as the Buddha scared-to-death, however, I will continue to look at women and girls are all I will see.

And so I shall remain chaste, and so I shall remain still – In solitude and in silence, meditating on my power. Realizing myself. In preparation. Not for her, but to honour the me in her and the her in me.


I die to her already.


You have a voice. Not like a literal speech-box voice (you’ve most likely got that too, though) but a metaphysical conduit for the embargo of your wisdom – a la ‘gift’ – for the world. You might call this an avatar. A unique figurine, beyond the physical manifestations of the masks we wear, or the minds that rest behind them. Something else, entirely, the space, shall we say, in which the mind and body arise.

We don’t however, always find our voice and speak from it. In fact, we rarely do.

I’m coming to think the sole shared proponent of those that we hoist into the altar of celebrity and world-wide esteem, is that each of these figurines found their voice and speak to the world in it in an ever-refreshing stream of originality. They are an outer emblem for what we all internally lack – our true voice, and the confidence to speak to the world with it – and this is why we, as a society, are so obsessed by them.

What is it about Kendrick Lamar that distinguishes him from other rappers? What about Martin Luther? He wasn’t the first black man who dreamed of emancipation.

I believe that we are given a set of gifts innately from birth. That this seed was given to us by our ancestors and from that inheritance we are here to become the most artistic versions of ourselves.

In truth I don’t know a lot about how to find or express this voice – and the purpose of this post isn’t as a tell-all-pirate-map to success, fortune and enlightenment. I’m 24. I can only just get my own stuff in order. More pertinent is to acknowledge its very existence and to shine a spotlight of attention on the inauthenticity with which we operate in our day-to-day lives.

We’re either faking being rich, or imitating someone who does poor better than us. Envying thy neighbor’s oxen, or working to emulate their performance.

Where do we find room for ourselves? Lost atwixt our fixation on the glow of originality in others, we leave our own power by the wayside.

Could it be that we are never ever going to be the best copy-cat in the world? That doing it like they did it won’t work for us? That our only chance of not having wasted the seed passed down to us by our fathers gone is to find what it is about us that is beautiful, original, and radiant and work to calcify this on the walls of our interior like we plaster others onto the walls of our living spaces? That to reduce ourselves to our most potent form and precipitate this quality is our very best chance of the success we dream of? Perhaps this is the only precondition to success in this world and that, once complete, we need not search any further as we would have already attained everything we lusted for in the very act.

If so, wouldn’t all the chatter about finding yourself within be ironically correct? And everything we’ve done up till now be equally fruitless?

We really are completely mad. But it’s so damn perfect. Only through our death may we be reborn. So let us die gracefully unto each moment. Unto the ongoing search deeper inside ourselves, and the ongoing cutting away of all that is not necessary until all that remains is you. Nourish that seed, plant it in the fertile soil of discipline, self-esteem and love. From it will grow a mighty tree, and still you might remain for the rest of your days while all that you need comes to you.



Calmly Rise, Powerfully Strike.

It is quite possible to be not inconvenienced, but empowered by cultivating sexual energy (read: not masturbating). This is a concept likely to engender resistance in even the most rigorous among the spiritually inclined. Resistance is not your friend. Let it go. Return to flow. Onward.

Every pore of your body can hum with contained energy.

A revolutionary concept was introduced to me recently – not to resist sexual energy. Be with it. Sit in it. Ask yourself “what is it about my energy that makes me want to rid myself of it?”. Indeed. What? When you let go of resistance you open yourself to flow. In this instance, the flow of not needing to disperse my precious sexual energy but to revel. To delight. To implode.

What we sacrifice in sexual indulgence is principally vitality, vigor, creativity, and exponential spiritual and personal growth.

I’m not saying don’t have sex. You do you. I’m only speaking to the benefits of reserve, discipline and self-esteem.

When you cultivate your sexual energy you raise the power that you bring to your life, and reduce the need to expend yourself in other areas. Like a snake, you calmly rest, and when the opportunity presents itself you are both aware and energized enough to strike powerfully, poignantly and purposefully. No wasted time. No wasted energy. All business when the moment calls for business. All relaxation when the moment calls for relaxation. Not a schizophrenic darting around at the slightest of stimuli.


The snake knows an ancient wisdom: stillness. A snake never makes an unnecessary movement. It conserves its energy and when the time comes it strikes like lightening.


This is about cultivation of your purest and strongest energy. Not robbing yourself of the part of you that can be used to either perpetuate your madness (should you choose to abuse it) or magnify your potential (should you choose to honour it).

This shall be my daily practice. I invite you to join me.

Where else are you expending your energy? Where are you spilling yourself, and on what?

I am better than my desire for orgasm.

That is all there is.