Broken Things.

The anger swells. Shouting voices. Rattling cords. Afraid to be vulnerable lost in the undeniable chaos of the world. Don't let it get you, my love. Be strong, my love. Long rides, a tale of two cities. The calm like ocean waters misting your face as they collide with the wall you hide behind. Ocean spray be like Mother Nature desperately trying to diffuse the situation. Two of her children at war. Divinity rising, a war of the gods. Titans clashing in the new millennium.

Restraint ebbs and flows, the black out is near. Flashbacks flood vision, I can no longer see my way. Where am I? Who is this? She isn't recognizable. Where did she come from?

Rage fills veins. Where've you been? New emotion. Built up to break down. Where did you go? Lost soul grasping for lifelines. Where did you go? Mirrors reflect unrecognizable images. This was never you. Who have you become? Possession seems logical. A scapegoat for the fear and, again, finding yourself alone. Battered soul, tortured soul.

Hands stretched out, words aren't enough. Words weren't enough. Frustration peaks, no outlet. Who are you. Love don't live here. Shaken up, mouth ajar, what did I sign up for? Who is this? Broken fragile creature, I no longer know. Where is the familiar?

Running somewhere where the wild things are, lost with the things people long to find. And where has she been... lost. Who are you? Bring it back to the middle. Broken little thing. Where did you come from? Demons dwell within and you've made them comfortable. Given them voice, robbing your own. A million times a prisoner to your own words and the demons escape, hands outstretched leaving bruises and scars no one can see.

Broken little thing. Return to the light. The Ocean swallowed you whole. No light lives here. Where is your lesson? How did you get here? Retreat to the temple of light you were birthed into. How did you get here?

Love here, love now. Don't be afraid, no need to fight for your life. You are alive, you are here, you can heal.

Hands tremble in the aftershock. 'What have I done?' Broken little thing. Broken shards of glass on the bathroom floor, a massive transparent heart you can't glue back together. One of a kind, a rarity. A beautiful thing you only see once in a thousand lifetimes. What have you done, broken little thing? No witness to the disaster, your fire is out. Volatile release, hard to breathe. Suffocating the old you. She must die. Unrecognizable broken thing. You must rest, the broken pieces continue to fall to the floor. Ashes to ashes, daughter of the dust. Forged in holy fire.

Build you again beautiful. Build you again strong. Build you again tender, little thing. The rarest of treasures. I can only hope that I could see you again in this lifetime. Broken trust, broken promises. I'm here now. Found, whole. Begging to love you tender. Begging to love you new. Begging for peace and understanding. Loving in the purest way. Real. Raw. No longer afraid of the emotion. Anger released at the fingertips into the universe. Take it from us. Even Gods need restraint and broken things needs love.

Put me together new. She found and whole. And let the ocean baptize us in sacred healing waters blessed with sunlight. Restore us and let the stars witness our triumphant return.

Patchwork and Chill

I sometimes wonder if I'm living my best life. I wonder if the affirmations that I tell myself at night really work, after all the other passengers have left the bus and it's just me and depression left sitting. I wonder if I still let fear keep me from doing the things I truly enjoy.

I find myself escaping sometimes, not that I get very far. I escape in my words. I escape in my actions. I escape, not in drugs or alcohol, although I have walked down that road, but I escape by trying to be the best version of myself. I escape by throwing myself into a place where I can be whatever I want to be so long as it's positive. I escape into becoming 'The Chandelier' the light source, beacon supreme.

By now, you've gathered that my escape is actually a retreat deeper into myself. A cerebral journey to the absolute core of who I am. Some days, the journey just feels... never ending. Like there's no diving board high enough to create a force strong enough to plunge me deep enough into myself, that I sleep peacefully through the night without waking up feeling as though I lost a part of myself I'll never be able to get back. A never-ending struggle to feel something, anything.

There's no hole deep enough within me, no despair dark enough to contain the observer watching me crave ME so desperately. I feel like I am that ONE ex-lover that got away from myself.
I feel like I'm clawing from the inside of a deep dark well, breaking my fingernails on bricks stacked so high that I'll never reach me. I sometimes feel like maybe my best life is the one where I acknowledge that I'll never get to all of me in this lifetime because maybe in this lifetime only fractions of me can be revealed.

I cry at night, frustrated with this existence because I know that my broken fingernails pales in comparison to the ache of a broken soul spending millennia collecting fragments and piecing them together like patchwork quilts. I'm frustrated that there's no fast forward button on forever. So I press play, jagged fingernails slowly growing out over time, tears leaving salt trails on my cheeks, and I keep going.

There's still so much more to see, so I'll keep collecting the fragments. Maybe that is what my best life is... being committed, no matter what, to sewing my patchwork quilt. Because sometimes, your best life is a warm blanket on the couch watching Netflix, waiting for the dawn.

Gasping for Hope

Smoke diffuses in this silent room, the music of my headphones drowns out the voices around me. My invisible shield against the war for the world.

Stomach rumbles. The ache of sacrifice making its home in the seat of my abdomen. Hunger making acquaintances with ambition, getting on a first name basis with effort. Falling in love with the grind. It's not what I thought it would be, though.

Rolling clouds and clanking metal, the smell of poison, Mother Earth's coughs make waves like tsunamis. Tired of dying to support us. Fragile little lives. Powerful mercenaries, following the cult of commerce. Blood diamonds in the eyes of demons challenging the existence of angels.

Too much to carry on the shoulders of slaves to capitalism, a broken chain of command. Plucking daisies out of the follicles of Gaia's tresses. Honeybees swarm around nectar-less flowers. Give me the life I've always dreamed of, fields of wildflowers and infinite potential. Dream in the color of possibility. Hues known to conscious creators, those brave souls willing to walk in shark infested waters.

Dancing in the rain atop the graves of the old gods, desperately clinging onto the old ways, a resurrection of the aboriginals. Sons of the Earth, daughters of the dust. Glistening heads, covered in Ash. A mighty fine blessing.

Cradle me, oh lord, in the fullness of hereafter. Carry me to lands where the lowest vibration is ecstasy. Show me that there is more to life than this. Remind me that there is still great love here.

I want to hear the beautiful of music in a quiet dark room, enjoy the smell of sacred smoke, and know that there is shelter from the end of the world.

Mother of Sweet Trees

Dreams of you dance across the movie screens of my mind, while your laughter echoes in the hollows of my ears. Sweet smells of peppermint linger and I remember love.

Beautiful curvatures in smiles, hint to an untold knowing. Mischief lives within you. A youthfulness often misunderstood. The Earth Queen, Garden Fairy of the Southern Realm. Sweet conjurings and raisins in the sunlight.

Dancing down the hard earth picking out new information like flowers. Sweet blood. Replacing the light in brown orbs with diamonds. Timeless, classic, eternal.

Woven warmth, humble hearth, a vast expanse of unconditional love. The love of the old gods, the spirit of the new... a beautiful harmony within you. Ritualistic practices comfort like warm blankets in the closet. Introduction to kindness, reinforced strength.

The light dims. Weathered limbs weaken and snap with fragility, leaves blow away in the wind, giving new life in unfamiliar places. Pollution, exclusion, selfless martyrdom. Roots once firmly planted loosen their grip.
Timber!

Broken pieces, reaching towards the heavens, new life awaits in the skies. Elementals dance in tandem with the wind. A herald to a triumphant return, Queen of Earth Fairies. Mother of Sweet Trees. Lover of All Things. Fluttering across the soft earth sewing infinite seeds. Woven warmth, ascended hearth.

How doth thy gardens grow? Beautiful sprites emerge, sprout wings, and mature where the wild things are. Lifted veils and infinite light. All Heil the Mother of Sweet Trees. The Queen of The Earth.

Dreams never ending. Transcendent love. Timeless Queen. I see you. Always.

The Chandelier

Swaying to the sound of my heartbeat, rocking in my own world, when someone recognizes my rhythm.
"Saundra, hey! How are you today?"
I'm great... I'd be even greater if I knew who you're mistaken me for. She must be out-of-this-world dope if you're thinking she's me. "Mch, oh, you know what I mean."
No, no I don't know what you mean.

I've since resigned myself to the "Hi, I'm Chandra, like Chandelier" so that the laziness in your tongue won't have to meander through the myriad of incorrect ways to address me.

I've always found it interesting that pronouncing name's like Tchaikovsky, Zuckerberg, and Sócrates, flows through fragile lips with the eloquent blessings of grammar fairies. Yet they seem to conveniently disappear when addressing me.
Oh, it must be the honey dripped over these letters, binding them together before dipping them in a bath rich of melanin, then baking them in culture at 450 years of separation from my roots, and finally letting it rest at: 'You got me fucked up if you think I'ma let you mispronounce my name.'
Yes, "a rose by any other name would still be as sweet", but we wouldn't come to know it as a rose, now would we? There wouldn't have been countless songs, poems, and inspired ideas from understanding 'that a Rose, is still a Rose'.
And my flower's got infinite light.
I be the Chandelier, coaxing you into proper pronunciation because Chandelier, with its plethora a syllables, still rolls of your tongue more willingly than Chandra does. Chan-dra.

Chandra literally meaning moon, born at 11:11 pm, a daughter to the night, ushered into this existence by the fullness of the Divine Feminine... and Mama didn't raise no fool. Born behind the veil, because walking around with a light this bright requires a shield from all the bullshit.
I be the Chandelier. Labored into light, illuminating the paths of all those I come in contact with, purposefully lighting the way of the lost.
I be the Chandelier, the lone fixture unafraid to do battle with darkness. Electricity courses through my veins. Electromagnetic frequency: insane.
I be the Chandelier, the sparkly being that dresses up all your insecurities. The perfect lighting you won't ever find in an Instagram filter. She be au naturale.
I be the Chandelier, bringing prismatic spiritual experiences to your world, unraveling the tangles of your soul and blessing you with 5th dimensional emotions, before clothes ever hit the floor.

What I mean to say is, I am the Chandelier because it's the only way to fully grasp the depth of The Who that I am, for lights are always admired but rarely
understood... But you can just call me Chan.

Stroking Words

You've searched for days, months, years; it's all led you to this moment. 

A chance encounter with a rare tome. 

Come inside, narrow your gaze, fix your soul to receive what I have to offer.

Reach for me.

The top shelf, perfectly aged, bound in leather and softened with the passage of time.

Hold firm, my hard exterior, fall in love with a one of a kind creation. 

They don't bind them like this anymore. 

Artistry. 

Take me back to the comfort of your home, create the perfect atmosphere for the transcendence. I will enrich you 100,000 different ways. 

Each word a gift.

Lay me down on my spine, and open me slowly, consciously, deliberately. 

Lean in smell my pages, see vast depth of words. 

Take. Me. In. Fully. 

Caress me delicately, lovingly stroking my pages. Dive into me, drink from the fountain of forbidden sacred knowledge.

Trace the outline of my words, familiarize yourself with the sounds I draw from your breath. Let me inside of you, become me. 

Recite my spells, command me, bend me to your will, I will go where you take me. 

Bookmarks fuel my insatiable need to be read by you, understood by you. 

Digits lift pages like limbs feverishly turned  up to the rhythm of intrigue. 

Fall in love with my dialogue. 

Pulsing thumbs create the history of my story. 

Words turn to sentences, turned to paragraphs, turned to pages of a sacred connection. 

Page, author, reader, you, me, us. 

Chapter after chapter, you keep coming back for more, becoming more familiar with the body of work before you. 

Stroking. Probing. Gliding. 

Highlighting the passages you plan to revisit in the future.

 The sentences that make you feel the seat of your soul, the ones that have to be read, again and again and again and again. 

Anticipation builds, you grip me harder and tighter, stroking every letter, every word, not missing a single curve in every 'g' or the penetration dot of an 'i'. 

You just have to know how this will end. 

You heart races as tension builds to the climax. You're deep inside me now, enthralled in every inch of me, and you still aren't done. You begin to let out audible expressions of how this moment is making you feel. Eye fucking me, turning pages faster and faster, hedonistic needs erupt in explosive revelry. 

This has be what God reads like.

Lost in my words, pleasurable releases, exasperated sighs, internally clamoring for more. You close me gently staring at me in disbelief. 

Amazed at how good I was. A chance encounter with an opus that changed the course of your life, forever for the better. 

Congratulations you've finished Volume 1. 

Touching and Loving

When was the last time you touched yourself? And I'm not specifically speaking to pearl diving or rubbing one out, although we will cover that in another post. When was the last time you touched your skin and reveled in its silky goodness or felt soothed in the ruggedness of its dryness...

Self love, yes that thing people typically swear they're all about but don't fully understand. Self love isn't just about liking what you see, although that is a grave part of the process. It's about loving yourself without. Let me explain, cause I know it sounds funny. The way that I've come to understand it, loving yourself without is about loving the IS of you. Not just your melanin (or lack thereof), gender identity, etcetera. It's about loving the very soul of who you are without your body image, without your personality quirks, the core of you *** is seated in the love of your divinity.

I feel like I'm not making sense. Bare with me...

Say you're a foot model... (I said bare with me)... Say you're a foot model and your life is centered around loving and taking care of your feet. Then you lose one in a freak accident and the other is severely scared. When you're loving yourself 'without', the loss of your career as a model and coping with your altered way of living does not shift your confidence in your divinity. Meaning, that there is no pretense or solid reasoning begin why you're loving yourself. You're doing so because that simply IS you. Now will that drastic change to your life alter the way you express that identity, sure. Will it take some deep refocusing and adjusting, absolutely. However, it does not change that fact that you are divine, and have a deep abiding love OF that divinity.

Take a moment now to caress your shoulder or leg.
 
*No seriously, do it! I'll wait*
...
...
...
...
...

You see how that feels, that warm touch that's you! Your limitless potential rests within every cell of flesh you just touched. In that small area there's limitless potential, infinite love, and light. 

Now when you introduce sexual or creative energy (because they are one and the same) into the mix, it intensifies an already magical state of awareness. And the topic of divine sexual/creative energy warrants its own post, trust me! But for the moment just imagine how dope a life you'd create once you tap into the whole of who you are, and love that without pretense. i plan to fully explore more ways in which I come to a deeper understanding and know of myself through my flesh, my spirit, my very essence... I'll be sure to check in later and let you know how it's going. I do encourage anyone needing some self-love to go forth and touch yourself, explore yourself, know thyself, and be thyself. 

^_^