Thane Elan Firestorm Ell
I have a hard time expressing myself sometimes.
Especially when I feel safe around someone who I know I can just express myself in whatever way comes through me and I’m emotionally excited.
I feel useless right now, I can’t seem to see how I’m going to make my music, to make songs, to find the right things to communicate.
It’s been such a wound that is so obvious.
Saturn is Rx now, He is travelling back to where he was in mid Feb. That was a trauma for me. To have my ‘throat slit’.
So much of my life’s story is ‘having my voice’ and ‘being heard’ and ‘understood’.
This is the way for most of us, I suppose, in some fundamental ‘communication’ way.
However for me it is truly a deep place of wounding and a place of need.
I can’t seem to make sense of what history is doing right now, with this medical mafiatic insanity, the plebeian rush for cover.
My own self, absorbed in my own story, my struggle. Even this feels wanting, inadequate.
In Feb, I felt abandoned. I had lost the one I was closest to.
I thought I knew them. They were in their own right a wounded person.
I fought with them, we both fought, I was told that they could make me cry if they wanted to. This evoked a visceral response.
I don’t think I can express myself properly. I think that I’m a 7, and that is a ‘mystic’ ‘often misunderstood’, according to David Allen Hulse, in his ‘Numerology’ via Llewelyn.
This is just where I’m at.
I am learning so much from Molly McCord. I want to just forgive and change who I am again.
To become worthy of this aeon. To be truly loving. To be the version of my self that, the person I lost, that, in our positive moments (you rock, dude!) that they know me to be.
That I know me to be.
There’s so much wibbly.
Pisces rising. 7 (!) degrees. Fomalhaut on my progressed rising.
The further I close in on being Saturnian, the more intense Rockstar I am.
The more I need to control my own winged steeds of dawn.
To hold my ten seconds when the heat lighting flashes in my cortex.
To watch the weather change, rather than to be ‘just that’.
I can’t speak, it hurts.
I was taken away, floated down the river.
Is my 14th piece assembled?
Do you know the Grand Monarchy is at hand?
Art Vs Nature?
When also Zephyrus with his sweet breath…
Wrecked upon the shores of Providence…
To lose my voice, to find my call…
Oh, mine Heart, pluck’d and cast a cubit’s spell in to the Vermillion Forge of Sacrifice
Was it the Return to the Body Elektra?
Too many ribs, for one Even…
Slight a Chance to Drown The Memphis
I Wear the same Crown as the Mass of Days
What is this?
What I would give just to move in the Pandoric Swain
No, nothing is good enough.
Nothing matters without the math.
The fire is started before my own time is born.
I cannot love again, until my heart is pluck’d from the fires.
Where, I fear not, it burns evermore.
Sweet lies are all we ever have.
Focus not too long, for you too will see what I see.
Blame me not, blame only thee.
The time is come for the grail to be spilleth.
Ask me not what I say.
For Speak I do not.
I judge ye not for your ignorance.
You are too battered against these rocks.
The birds lift us up and drop us downward to crack our shells,
to eat out our meat, our hearts, our eyes
to eat too what you must do to survive, oh Citizen
broken babes of collars of flesh
filtered through the wan of armageddon
phils pours pils please forget forget forget
to return to the cusp of fortune
not a wheel, not a sphere, a becoming, a happening
always always always here and now and lightning
red in the face redder in the maw
father forgive bleeding in the midsummer nights knot broken wave
wet and dead and stained in regret
oh horrors
oh hell
what have we wrought
this witches sabbath burn me coastal here now
they broke me from the mould and iron, my god
A Child Of The Moon
Monsters
Monsters
Everywhere
and not enough, no never enough, blood to slake
the new pentecost for the old horizon
wet weapons and the brood of war
cost me not for I come freely
I come in you
and never again
Occult Fan 