Ink Blots & Spilled Thoughts

The Hymn of the Shattered Vessel An Invocation to the Liberator and the Wild To be spoken in the dark before dawn, or in the hush after the storm, when the hands still tremble and the heart remembers it is yet beating. Hear me, O Lysios—Liberator, O Twice-Born from the ash and fury of the Titans’ rage, You who were torn like seed cast upon the black earth And gathered again by love’s immortal patience— I am scattered. My bones are loose syllables. My breath stumbles over the ruins of its own name. My life lies in fragments Around the feet of my undoing. Eleutherios, Unchainer of knots no mortal hand can loosen, Come not robed in triumph, Not crowned upon the mountain of my victories— But descend here, Into the valley of my tearing-apart. I have drunk the false wine; It soured to ash upon my tongue. I have danced the frenzied dance without the god, And morning found me broken in its merciless light. But You— You know the way back from the underworld. Y...

Hymn to the Lord and Lady of the Deep A Tidal Liturgy for Poseidon and Amphitrite O Beloveds of the Sounding Tide, At that trembling edge where horizon dissolves into mystery, where breath becomes brine and the soul remembers its aqueous origin, I lift my voice— not in conquest, but in reverence. Poseidon! Neptunus of the cobalt mane, Ennosigaios—Earth-Shaker, Bearer of the three-pronged scepter that splits the veil between worlds. And Amphitrite! Radiant Consort, Kyanoploiame—She of the Dark Blue Water, Crowned Queen of the Circling Currents, Foam-Born Majesty, encircled in coral and nacre, Keeper of the Deep Calm that balances all tempests— Receive this praise. Before there were cities, You were. Before there were borders, Your tides erased them. Before we learned to fear, You rolled beneath us— patient, immense, and dreaming. O Poseidon, Lord of the Unmastered Blue, Your breath is the gale that bends the cedar mast to its knees. Your step is the tr...

Hymn to the Ever-Burning Forge   An Invocation to Hephaestus, the Eternal Architect of Flame   O Belovèd Smith of undying flame,  Lord of the anvil’s resounding hymn, the furnace-heart ablaze—  You who dwell where Fire learns its sacred discipline,  And Metal awakens to its starry, cosmic destiny—  I call to You.  Not as a relic entombed in ash and shadowed story,  Not as an ember fading beneath the dust of forgotten shrines,  But as the secret Sun pulsing beneath our marble cities,  The living heat within the engine’s iron breast,  The bright spark that dances through silicon veins,  The ghost of lightning haunting every gleaming screen.  Hephaestus!   Master of measured fire, Architect of thunder’s roar,  Templar of the tempest, Shaper of shields and storms—  You who forged the sovereign bolts for Zeus’s mighty hand,  And wrought the armor that made Achilles more than mort...

The Moth Emerges from the Nigredo In the beginning, there was the breaking— not the clean snap of a twig, but the slow, mineral erosion of stone under water that lies, under hands that reshape your gravity until north becomes south and your own heartbeat sounds foreign. They scattered you. Sparagmos. Limbs of perception torn by Titans wearing familiar faces, your thumos whipped into a frenzy while they called your chaos madness, your survival sickness. You were told to become butterfly— to fold your trauma into bright wings, to sip quickly at the surface, to dazzle and die in the same season, to forgive the frost that clipped you and call it spring. But you descended instead. Katabasis. Into the humus, the black earth, where Persephone keeps her winter, where the pupa does not dream of flight but of becoming— a gestation longer than anyone’s patience, a silence mistaken for death. Years in the chrysalis of ash. Nigredo. You did not glitter. Y...

The Rose and the Hand  We are the rose that beholds the rose, the hand that cups the flame and is not burned but warmed into being. Beauty looks out through your eyes and sees itself— and calls it holy. O, the sacred is not other. It is the pulse in your wrist singing yes  to the pulse in the cosmos. It is the way your breath catches when the hawk banks against the sun, and the sun banks against your heart. We are the chalice and the wine, the question and the amen, the shelf emptying itself so the fire may walk free. Touch me, and you touch the trembling edge where the rose becomes the hand that tends it, where the god becomes the body that names it, where the beauty of the sacred and the sacredness of beauty unfurl as a single petal, indistinguishable, eternal, home.

The Gospel of the Living Self: Codex of Integration and Reciprocity I. Invocation of the River In the beginning, there was no self, and yet the self flowed. It flowed not as flesh, not as bone, not as spark, but as river, Threading through echoes of the past, whispers of the future, And the luminous pulse of the now. To be is to weave. To gather the fragments of memory, sensation, and emotion, And fold them into the lattice of awareness. The question, “Who am I?” Is the pulse of the river, Turning upon itself, tracing its own contours, Seeking reflection in the currents, in the echo of other, In the web of contrast that sustains the “I.” Repeat in silence: I am the river. I am woven of past, present, and future. I flow, I integrate, I am. II. The Law of Distinction The river needs its banks. Awareness arises only in contrast. Without other, there is no self. Without self, there is no other. This is law. This is architecture. To dissolve into undiffe...