Prose: Love is a relief.

Victor Brauner - Suicide at Dawn, 1930

When a place fractures you, requires you to split yourself into many pieces, you learn the art of pretend.

The art of pretend is subtler, more underground than any acting. Your soul needs to be refined, thoughts need to be rewritten, it is the overhaul of your bodily, psychological and physiological needs. It is pushing against the tide for the greater good.

It may the crunching of your teeth, the biting of your tongue, it is the punishment of the visceral self. The defence mechanism that needs to learn it isn't needed any more.  I am not in danger.

I hope that the greenery, the sound of waterfalls and other peoples joy is like honey to the wounds collected.  When I walk in a room, I hope nothing disappears and the tears don’t come. They don’t need to. 

Extra notes: 

The painting above looks frightening, even to myself. However, in context,  it depicts the killing of the old self. My old self was full of fear, doubt and a deep loss. 

The Buddhists have an interesting concept of Satan, a favourable one to the monotheistic religions.  It's not this red horned, evil entity out to hurt you. (when you think about it, what species is really good at being cruel..) 

 It's rather a concept ; Mara (the Hindi term) is whatever that diminishes you. Whatever brings you away from divine, all-encompassing love.

“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is: Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.”