I am Inana
naked
walking barefoot towards the underworld.
Stripped, I am in the void.
This familiar unsatisfying place.
No thing sits or stands or even lays before me.

Instead, I witness behind me a collection of desires I’d crafted into stories to satiate the hunger for purpose, which like all things, has died and taken shape as the true illusion it always was.

How dare I create meaning when there is none?

How dare I attempt to carve out something from a place of moral integrity when, after all, it is purely relative, purely cultural and depends on the eyes of the person in witness.

I see now the power of belief.

And the power too of story, whether it is true or not.

How now, how do we live?

Simply-obviously

How else, when all of the words you have ever had, lost their gleam, sheen and glint the moment they escaped you.

We draw now into the heart of the year.

The winter solstice.

The dreaming place.

You must find again a thread to follow or wait till one appears.

I prefer the later.

Searching seems to exactify all that is wrong.

All that unfurl in the monsters belly of whatever it is you are feeling.

Lost am I?

Definitely forever?

Hopefully long enough to not forget your folly once again.

Your determination to get fixed on dreams that may or may not serve you and throw yourself at them-whole.

It seems that you live backwards to common culture.

While everyone else is leaning to wild themselves because they are wild beneath the surface, you are learning to tame yourself because beneath your wildness is a longing to live tame.

You have lived wild all your life.

On the edge of everything and it is exhausting.

There are such big questions that you have managed to avoid while living dangerously.
Routine might have brought you answers sooner.
Instead you have danced behind them, around them, slipped swift and clever.

And underneath it all there is a great grief you cannot understand.

A death has occurred and the waters it resides in sit within you beneath the surface like the Great Artisan Basin.

Shame for all your resolve of faults is more obvious and quickens a little closer to the skin.

Who are you trying to be?

If you stopped trying…who would you become?

If you stopped the tide of your passions when they rose upon you like Southern seas and Pacific cyclonic swell.

Would it save you from this lull?

This depth you fall into once it resides?
Most likely not.

All we can do instead is be honest.

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