Progression and Isolation: A Writer’s Sanctuary
Abbie Marks • March 22, 2016 • Art •
Hypocrisy and The Eye of Horus
I think that for a long time I’ve subdued using fantasy. What people call, a shallow existence.
Exchanged it for the sake of having any kind of thought, really any abstraction, to brave the fact that I’m not like many. That my interests are “individual” or absent to whatever mindless collective has drudged up human habit and morosely called it our fate.
I’ve never been intrigued by moroseness despite its use in contradicting beauty and its use in words and poetry.
Upon the many layers and predisposed factions of what my life is to be like, versus what it is like, wearing it pressed against my chest like a robe, all under the watchful eye of not contradicting my moroseness or “sounding like an idiot”, standing out as the eye of the ignorant, is the heart of my upbringing, blanketed in rice and stew and smiles, followed in sweat and humility.
Eye of Horus is a friend to ignorance, like a light is keen to the switch, or a maker is keen to moistening its tips and extinguishing the night with the cold morning.
Fantasy subduing again, Horus pays homage to the power of the mind as a whole, a vast exchange and expansion of what the “vegetative eyes” only quantify as perception.
We are like magnets to the heart, connecting our feelings and inner awareness to the higher collective of all life. Horus, the keeper of inner responsibility from the realms of respect, dignity, and determination, reaching the minds of men through the heart and through the false illusion that we are here for only one, yet clinging to the task of self-identity and perseveration.
It is under this watchful eye that I bring light to my most recent “remedial”. Whether you’re keen to the changes taking place in the world, hoarding for hindsight, or broken by the piercing ambivalence of dramatics, something else is breaking itself free from what was once believed as destiny. Under the modest means of morality lies the imperious disdain of one’s own fiber or social will.
Under a fixed eye and the eye of society, there is little room for the movement of an enamored soul.
A soul fixed not on the body or the mannerisms that make up the dead, not broken by the departed or the shallow confines of hypocrisy flexing its muscles on the weak, bringing limits to the boundless spirit, but one focused on the web of structural change and the interdisciplinary sprouting of knowledge, recollection, and expression, remedying both over time.
I’ve been found falling, and I’ve finally caught hold of the stake, when suddenly everyone starts climbing.
If you look at where you are now, it’s not actually a place but a guess based on a projected outcome of the way you exist, surrounded by choice, chance, and perseverance.
Acknowledging our capacity and inherent desire to build a stronger community with those who meeting similar thresholds, making similar decisions, in love with life despite the turmoil, this is the vague hope that releases its tongs and once commanding its role, makes us wonder: at what expense? Is the nature of the beast bred to revert us back into our holes? Or bring about a common denominator…
What is love, pain, and forgiveness if not the bond shared between us moving through time and the tiny atoms we that solidify life, breaking away from the molds of knowledge to brace a new fact, an understanding, a revolution of ethics and intellect, magnetism of souls who have dusted off their sorrows, heart’s bound to the sanctuary of life, rolling bodies around like clay, springing them up from Earth to celebrate the dance.
My cheeks turned down towards the ever-living abundant line of “me”, the “innie”, the application of, and investigation of, which unity has miraculously found a place for.
Heaven’s gates are guarded
In pearls and lion’s teeth
Courageous is He
Who has faced the feet of wisdom
And found himself to be an offering
Yet still it holds its eye, the projected time, like it were a vessel conquering worlds or a shadow to the walls of consciousness.
Humility smells like sweat and grease, it smells like the equator or the closest point to the core, and it’s something you have to do, like listening to a Cajun’s stories because history told you so and chaos determined it.
(This piece was inspired by essays and poems by Ralph Waldo Emmerson, Eye of Horus, and a recent experience at Rhythm Sanctuary.)
Graphics by Matt Diss