Lotus Diaries

Lotus Diaries: The Executioner

It's another day I've woken up on the shore of reality after a night of traversing my psyche. The gas stove boils water for my French press and room-temperature water christens my throat. My routine staples never change. In the name of belief, I'm approaching the day with a new stride. I've established a greater appreciation for the significance of my life choices, so I've decided to execute them with care and reverence. With subtly and significance, the minutiae I've chosen to alter have made me anew.

Death can be so silent. The first hint of pain sires little armies of nervous shock until the last sound of them is heard. And the sound goes nowhere but into the softness of a void feeling. It's when every shade of paint merges and nothing is left but a murky black color. I would know. I'm the one wanting to turn my life into art—it seems I must perform the role of The Executioner to accomplish this feat.

Swift swords, thorough thrusts, and just ordinances illustrate each mutilation. Every execution is performed in solitude, some in my dreams and others in my journal. In a state of numbness, the last cry I remember is a tune of how I've failed myself. 'All this death stares me in the face and I've been too afraid to admit what I cannot live without in this life. Is it even possible to move forward without recognizing one's direst necessities? And what do you do when these are stifled? Is it appropriate to obey Natural Law? Or do you submit to a part of yourself that rises and makes an executive decision? I know for myself. I cannot live without breathing. Science. I need levity.

I need Love. Each day is a battle well fought, even when loss surrounds me. Even when I reside strung in the balance of what is gone and oncoming– when I cling to the faith in satisfaction arriving after temporal disappointment or puncturing, I know I've won. I'm still here, still hanging onto Faith. And I acknowledge this sentiment because Love has taught me to. I'm confident I cannot live without love.

Love.

At this ripe age, my eyes are open to Love's omnipresence which can be a source of confusion. It's all around us in different forms, densities, and textures. Confronting any vast assortment with a state of openness will always invite a test of grace because, as I've realized, one man's remedy is another's poison. How do you embrace acceptance and gratitude for every expression of Love you encounter?

I cannot live without the warm sisterly embrace of a phone call. Last night, I was on the phone with a dear friend I wish I saw every day. Our exchanges never fail to caress parts of myself often perceived as weak, naive, or apathetic. Gratitude is found in these moments, but hindsight lends a heightened appreciation for time shared. Love can access lengths with the potential to witness the fullest breadth of its subject. In hindsight, it is understood that these aspects of myself aren't seen for their purest value.

I need Love and refuse to accept that I can live without it.

Resentment does find me. I'm surrounded every day by Familiarity. Familiar people and places, schedules, and temperaments. As the days pass, recognition skews. In a pursuit of clarity, I commit myself to traveling the halls of my heart housing a kinetic portrait that becomes further realized as time matures. Familiarity only remains...familiar...while becoming less recognizable. My general sense of who I am and have, honestly, always been has started to make more sense. And so has a relentless constant: the feelings left in my chest after a conversation with Familiarity, the sensations on my skin when Familiarity lays its eyes on me. I know that Familiarity loves me but its remedy is invasive.

I want to know how much love I can hold. I want to see myself become a threshold that welcomes every noble heart, but Familiarity feels restrictive. How could a Lotus garden know centuries of drought? As I've turned my ears to the soil, I realize this terrain must be fertilized with blood. At this point, the practice of balance feels like navigating a torn heart and ecstasy in regards to being The Executioner.

Love is all around me.

I find levity when a walk in the forest indulges my senses. Wind is heard miles away, rustling leaves that duet a rhythm with crows, only resulting in one appearing hawk, perched in front of me on a barren tree branch. 'All happening seconds after I pose a question. A love like this is powerful, bridging me closer to the veil of everything divine. The proximity of its magic terrifies me. But I can't live without it. I cannot imagine a life without the correspondence between myself and the world around me. I don't know what I would do without the remembrance of support grazing my skin. Who would I be if I couldn't taste the truth of where I stand on my tongue after sending my clandestine vulnerabilities downstream of a riverbed?

I'm held in my own hands. I'm the keeper of the knowledge which determines who is given claim to land in this garden. I'm committed to acknowledging my personal necessities. And I must decide what's best for me, the version of myself I hold in my hands.

If the terrain demands blood, it will be spilled.

Here I am, waking up another day, changed for the better. I stare at the acrylic portrait and am grateful for how it has unfolded today, despite my estrangement from familiarity. But I cherish the intimacy of remembrance.