THE PURGE II
BY JADE TRUEMAN
Listen to the song whilst you read the piece.
infinity love pt. i – Jean Grae
Welcome to a time capsule.
The teachings around creating and curating pace, will be available in what is to follow. I am very glad that you are here [speaks to self and to you].
Instruction 1: slow down.
Instruction 2: slow down.
Instruction 3: Listen to the song and identify the anti-clockwise rotation of the sound between the right and left speakers [artists do this alot, pay attention].
Jean Grae really knew how to force me into her time-capsule.
So join me in mine!
A sensitive space exists between the hanging mist which lingers just above the waves which crash on the shore. The sensitivity is like the petals which lay in the mind of a half-brained vagabond. I am hanging mist. She. Still the ocean, continues to ebb and flow onto the shore. I watch her in the hope that with just enough condensation, I will form into a cloud and precipitate. That I will be able to pour into her like petals upon landing. Floating gently into her vast tide…
But I hang above her, like mist, practicing patience, curating pace. Curating my own pace. But what was this lingering sensitivity?
Liminal space perhaps?
Defines liminal space: a place of transitional positioning, the in-between, the threshold.
Redirects the edge at which I linger, looks at self and changes scene [continues to curate pace and speeds up]
Have you ever woken in the middle of the night, with no greater desire, than to lose yourself in music? When the night time quiet can only be savoured with attempts at finding all of life’s answers, through lyrics which can only be grasped and understood between 2 and 4 am.
Body rolls, eyes closed, listening with intent, gentle breezes seeping in from my window pane, sky falling with the moon placed on my hips, hips clasping the edges of dreams and linen translating into the closest thing to a stage. I may be the best bed-dancer alive, I think.
Redirects the edge at which I linger, looks at self and changes scene [continues to curate pace and slows down]
Finding myself having outer body experiences more often than not because, sometimes feeling separate from myself feels more real than being ‘here’ at all. I transition between existing as lingering mist and being a glass house overlooking the harbour.
I throw stones at myself to try to understand the cracks which I know I am. I try desparately to redesign what it means to feel like I am walking amongst the living. Desperately seeking to understand what glass ceilings may mean. For reaching glass ceilings would mean that I am actually getting to a place of self-worth and accomplishment. But here I am, desparately seeking what it means to dream of a place, far away from it all. Have you ever dreamed of a place like this? Where you leave room within yourself to grow, but all that is left is a pounding sound of dismay and cracking ridges of ‘go and make mistakes’ you need to develop before you seek to attach yourself to anyone else.
[I am the wind which surges through the cracks of my glass house]
But why will you not accept me with my cracks?
Or will you only accept me once I am totally broken in order to fill your void as an incessant fixer?
Do you not understand what it means to be adored and adorned with unconditional devotion? Have you been so hurt that you do not identify with what it means to trust in pure impulse? Did you leave your intuition at sea? Did you leave your love upon a rainbow coloured kite handled by a 5 year old boy?
Where did I leave my love? Where did you leave yourself?
Does it exist in the infinity? Does it exist in the rainbows which flicker off the diamond still waiting at the bottom of the ocean?
Where did I leave my love? On cold floors in houses which have no end, where incense burns to the rhythm of tibetan music and hollow exchanges of intimacy?
Where did I leave my love? On a dance floor, with speakers pulsating through lip locked exchanges with a dark-purple haired stranger?
Or did I leave my love at that art-gallery? In the painting which spoke to my irrational mind?
Where did I leave my love?
Does it exist within the space between the ‘intent of self love’ and the ‘realisation of it?’
Redirects the edge at which I linger, looks at self and changes scene [continues to curate pace and slows down even more]
Oh, were you not the most beautiful conundrum to me. Embellished with rainbows on your lips. Stars fell out of the sky and placed themselves into your smile when you revealed it to me. The sky in your eyes and dreams trapped in between your seamless folds. A slow restlessness. A frantic calm.
I remember you. I remember the you, in the me.
I remember the me in the you. The liberation which filtered through the linen wrapped around bated breaths of desire never actualised until the you in the me and the me in the you came to be.
Then the missing of the musings.
And the musings of the missing.
My curated time capsule haulted. The petals fell into the ocean. Her tide: soothing and besotted with the elusiveness of her depths. The conundrums hold more weight than bland transparency, or is it the waiting which held more?
The waiting. The pace. My time capsule.
A mirror of the illusion assumed. I assume my position. I linger as ‘Mist’ and roll down below. In between the air and the crash.
It forces me to re-member:
Loneliness echoes in places where you recognise tainted folds of desire. As you unfold its pieces you begin to understand that the desire for inner peace lays between the need for silence and the need to pursue substantial affections of graceful offerings.
You are only as relevant as the idea of you.
The illusion you assume. Positioned as a time capsule.
Or are you?
Note: This is the second Purge in the series of Purges. Read the first one here: The Purge .