Love, mirrored.

He who lives in knowledge – and who has forgone his ivory tower of belief, and gleaned from deliberate steps in philosophy that all he sees is a reflection of his internal world – knows his lover as his closet and dearest reflection. Through her, sees himself.

Never does he get caught pointing the finger, for that finger will be pointed straight back. Through correction of self he elevates his reflection, in love.

He is a reflective soul who knows, that his world is his creation. That ‘the world’ is an illusion. That the agitation he sees is his own, that the reaction he sees is his own, that the love he desires is his own: cultivated and then purified and reflected back to him by his woman.

His woman is beautiful. Because he loves himself.
His woman is powerful. Because he is unafraid of self-correction, and her.
His woman is loyal. Because he is honorable.

Anything the Gentle Man does not wish to see in his woman he must rid of in himself. This is life’s lesson to him in accountability. The Gentle Man is an example. He lives in a world, beyond time, perfecting his technique with repeated strokes in discipline. His craft is his love. His woman is a reflection of his love for his craft. She, too, loves her craft. And through and with each other they move slowly, in a spiral pattern, towards the perfection of their craft and the mastery of other through self.

He knows he. He knows all.
She knows she. She knows all.
Love, mirrored.

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Photogaph by Alex Dram

 

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Sharpening.

Silently, I sit…. Admiring her softness.

I have a stone upon which I sharpen my sword – a woman – whom through serving I build my tolerance for sacrifice and thereby step further into my strength. Service to her and to all women is my daily practice. And I have become fond of repeating the basics until perfect.

I was served by a woman as a child, and I now serve this woman and all women as a man. So turns the cycle of birth, death, and birth.

Woman, I now need nothing from you. Not your romance. Not your sex. I have everything I need internally. And all that is mine, externally, is coming to me. All you must do is be what you are and you will be loved deeply, and unconditionally. You will be listened to, and seen. You will be cherished for all that you are.

So do not clean after me. Do not cook for me. Do not exert yourself for I am not a kept man.

Accept me, consume me, and I will be a God for you that we might perpetuate this eternal dance of energetic polarity into each night and spill it over into each morning.

And when you wake I will be here. Unmoved. Unmovable. The warrior.

Your man.

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Photograph by Andrea Tomas Prato

 

Daisies and Chain Mail.

Come to me dressed up in daisies and chain mail. I will unsuit you.

Walk away from me in irreverence – the door will be held for your exit.

Amused for your presence, and grateful for your absence. Come or go. The enemy in neither.

My greatest strength is knowledge of my greatest weakness which is ignorance. Of you. Of me. Of energy. My next greatest strength is resolve. I unravel you slowly. And as I unravel you I unravel me, your divine reflection, and energy twists us toward perfection.

This is a class act. And like a boxing bag, rounded into shape by the repetitive thud of the hungry, I learn the hard way and am fashioned into shape by mistake after mistake. Yet I endeavor to trip over everything just once. For thereafter lays the realm of the fool.

I work at my art. Beat away at my craft. Perfection is nearing.

So come for me, dressed in whatever you like. And be ready to be undressed. Of everything you’ve been told you must be for me.

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Artwork by Andrea Tomas

Walk from me, with as much or as little love in your heart as you can summon. Love finds its home within my eye. And you may find love, and the long road home, by my side. Home bound, nonetheless. Walk with me.

 

 

 

 

The First Steps.

Giving. Not to receive but receiving. Being a conduit for her pleasure and elevation. Mastering yourself to master the moment. Unconquered and radiant. Divine.

Loving, in that giving. Not to be loved but being loved. Being loved so dearly. Taking a step back and tending to the raising and releasing of her energy before your own, if your own at all. Do not be conquered by her. She will test you. Remain strong. Unmoved. She awaits the unmovable man to truly move her, if you are anything else you will tire against her resistance. See no enemy. Defeat your enemy by having no enemy. You are victorious.

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If you are a lover of women, love women. If you a fighter of battles, fight battles. If you are a writer of words, then indulge these faculties as often as your potency would permit it. If you wish to love, fight and write then do these things yet be the master of them. And do not disperse your energy towards that which you will not master. In time, master all. In short, master just one thing, and that is the first stone in the chapel of mastering all.

Know not to talk of what you know. I shall not talk. I know little and what I do is for me, you may not have it. Yet you may have its fruits as I elevate you lovingly and patiently – all in good time. For now I tend to my own garden. There are beautiful flowers budding there for me to sit and drink tea with.

Destroy her. Be destroyed. In the inferno of passion hold stance and authority. Be gentle when the moment requires it of you, firm when necessary, also. Bring her to her death, and by her hand, die yourself but on your terms, when the time comes to do so. Select the moment, and if you must release do so into the womb of surrender, only. Take on only as much responsibility as you are capable of managing. Manage that responsibility well.

And remember, none of it is real, anyway. So have fun with it, also.

– M

 

 

(no title).

There is a time for solitude and there is a time for celebration. A time for discipline and a time for balance. Ergo the essence of balance, itself a necessary precursor to stance.

What comes to me is mine. You came to me. Am I to infer then, that you are mine? If I wish to take you, then yes. Do I wish to take you?

This is power.

I am not at the mercy of emotions. I sit, wait, watch for what comes and then CHOOSE. Having stripped away all that is not necessary I now see I need nothing to be joyous. Therefore, I may take you or I may leave you. I am, in other words, perennially accounted for.

You do not come to me for correction, which is perfect: I am in no position to correct. I shall, then, keep all that I know through APPLICATION within. Conserving the energetic weight I have put on like jam. And I do not spread myself out, lest I wear myself thin. Plump and sweet I remain. I will, however, see to the elevation of my peers (as per my duty). So come to me for love and you may have that. Therefore you will shine like a lake, winking back at me with stars in your eyes.

Through watching as I do you may find an example of foundation, and benefit from that, too.

Bath in the waters of discipline. You may become accounted for if you are not so careful.

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Artwork by Noritoshi Hirakawa

And I may discover the abyss of feminine divine in the grottoes of your eyes. Show me up. Test me. I wait, still and patient. I hope you come ready to murder. For I am ready to die at your hands.

– M.

 

 

 

Refinery.

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.

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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,Β  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 presenceΒ 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.

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

 

Goddess.

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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.

Perfect.

I die to her already.