Remember the Strength

Dies irae, dies illa

    Solvet Saeclum in favilla

    Teste Satan cum sibylla.

    Quantos tremor est futurus

    Quando Vindex est venturus

    Cuncta stricte discussurus.

    Dies irae, dies illa!

Saintly Death

I used to dream of dying a heroic death. Defiant to the last gasp of breath. Clad in loincloth, armed with big-ass swords, axes, like Conan in the comics..Bathory and Manowar in the band photos…Defending justice, in self- righteous, brutal carnage.

Of course, one eventually grows up and realized heroism has no value other than in Hollywood. That violence and big weapons belongs to the sole monopoly of state apparatus on whom we can always rest our utmost trust and reliance for fairness, safeness and squeaky-cleanness….

No more needs for dying saints…we just need more saintly gadgets and applications to solve whatever little problems we have left in the world now…

A Sky Full of Goddesses

“At other times, at the edge of a wood, especially at dusk, the trees themselves would assume strange shapes: sometimes they were arms rising heavenwards, , or else the trunk would twist and turn like a body being bent by the wind. At night, when I woke up and the moon and the stars were out, I would see in the sky things that filled me simultaneously with dread and longing. I remember that once, one Christmas Eve, I saw a great naked women, standing erect, with rolling eyes; she must have been a hundred feet high, but along she drifted, growing ever longer and ever thinner, and finally fell apart, each limb remaining separate, with the head floating away first as the rest of her body continued to waver” 

― Gustave Flaubert, November (1842)

Strength

Strength never comes with ease or mediocrity. Sometimes it has to be forged in black choking smog. Among searing flames and grinding, dull, white bones. 

A forging of solid inner discipline, of the self, to embrace or reach beyond the beautiful chaos….