Chaos

The well ordered structure, the well oiled machine …

To some a home, a sanctuary, a refuge, hearth and home, kith and kin. To some, the ideal not yet reached, always out of reach, but existing at least in some collective imagination, more real than reality.

To me a prison. Chains. Stifling, stultifying, stupefying. No home to me, a hearth too cold, my kith are not here, my kin … once, but now long dead.

They wanted me to see thus a paradise here, where I would improve, though not greatly change, the structure, the structure partly of their hands, built with their blood, flesh still torn of old wounds, still streaming steaming, screaming blood.

How could I not honor such wounds, such blood? Should I not let my blood flow thus with theirs? Joining, merging pain with pain, blood with blood, torn flesh with torn flesh. Is not my blood of theirs? Did they not bleed for me?

Where is my home? Not this honored, beloved prison. Stifling, stultifying, stupefying to me, but the work of their lifetime. Should I not avenge such wounds? Should I not be similarly torn, shorn, stripped and killed?

But my home, my true home, - chaos, maelstrom, tumult, pandemonium, bedlam. A mad house? No, not mad and no house. Rather a howling, wild, savage, wilderness. Safe in the wilderness. No order, no machine. Sanctuary to me, and the blood of my blood. Surging life, a life that needs no meaning greater than IT IS.

What higher purpose is there than TO BE?

The first without a second, the all in all, expanding, creating, destroying, renewing. Chaos to order, then destroy the structure, back to the howling, wild, savage, wilderness. My soul. Bring the chaos forward. Can chaos be brought? No, it goes where it will, though I would not say where it wills.

I will seek where it goes. I renew myself, create then destroy, then renew. Forever. The blood of my blood that flows in my veins while I live and breathe. The blood of the blood of all that lives and breathes.

And I swear by all that lives and breathes, I cannot deny the blood of my blood.

Let my chains be smashed. Chaos, maelstrom, tumult, pandemonium, bedlam.

Well-ordered prison. I honor you in their memory. I see your beauty. You too must be smashed.

Come O Shiva, destroy this structure so I may build here, renew this place, though what I build must someday be smashed as well. Will I then be Shiva, am I Shiva now?

They could not understand why the well-ordered prison must be smashed, dissolved, disintegrated and pass forever from the face of the earth.

Did they not remember that they smashed old prisons in which they were chained? Could they not see their castle could be a prison to another, to their beloved?

They are no longer here. Where? I cannot say. Merged into the blood of my blood? They were assuredly never separate from it. I grieve that they could not see the beauty of my structure. Perhaps because it was never well ordered, not enough here, too much there, curves and angles, not straight lines, but LIVING and forever changing, like the blood of my blood.

Come storm and wind, give me stones and wood and flesh torn from other structures. Enter storm and wind into my soul, flowing, surging, fill me with your energy, your life, bring chaos here. And chaos is my sword, my shield. No, chaos is my brush and my palette, a trillion varied shades and hues for my palette.

The storm and the wind surge about me, within in me. The colors of my palette give voice and sound, smell, savor and sight to the blood of my blood. My canvas, about me, swirling, forming and disintegrating. Rise to Himalayan heights, fall to oceanic depths. Then rise higher, then fall deeper. Move light years here then there. Over and over. Forever. A trillion trillion brush strokes. Harmony and dissonance, order and disorder, light and dark. Not opposites. Making each other whole, forming all, the all in all.

Come o blizzard, straight white lines, like flowing lightning bolts. Wrap what was in your white shroud. Plains, curves, hillocks, bends, rivers, lakes, oceans of white that were not before and in an instant are no more, destroyed, then renewed. Over and over. O blizzard, cold and pure, come shape your trillion, trillion flakes, perfect crystals each, formed in unfathomable cold, shape them as you will, or perhaps as you must, shape them to myriad forms, forms not seen before and seen in a trillion, trillion other places, here, and unseen planets of unseen stars, in unknown space, in unknown time. Formed and destroyed. Over and over. Forever. Living. IT IS.

The life of my life, the blood of my blood must go such places, meet the blizzard there, merge with the blizzard there, create and destroy with the blizzard there. Entering into the surge and flow.

I AM. I need know nothing more.