“Stop! Here lies the empire of death.” Seen in the Paris Catacombs.
There is nothing inherently stupid or childish about being positive or spiritual. It’s not at all naive. What I have learned and seen for myself is that it is often the knowledge of the great breadth of suffering in this world that drives people to spread light, not the ignoring of it. You look right into the darkness and choose to light a match.
differentiating reality from imagination
we all have moments where we wonder whether we’re talking to ourselves or to an actual spirit, moments where we second-guess ourselves. here’s a method i’ve been using to separate the two:
in the middle of the conversation, try to make the spirit you’re talking to say/do something absolutely ridiculous that you know they won’t do using only your thoughts. if they do as you think immediately, then it’s imagination. if you continue your conversation with them and/or they reprimand you, then it’s real.
other signs i’ve noticed when a spirit is real:
- they say things you don’t expect
- you get impressions of feelings and thoughts aside from words
- they teach you things you don’t know
- you feel a distinct presence when talking to them
- you might get tired if you talk to them for quite some time (while imaginations don’t tend to suck your energy)
Pics from different sculptures/installations/projects by Sasha Vinci. Discovery via 2 of my favourite art-bloggers gorettmisstag and blamemothermary.
Mother of Death
Hail Eisheth, clad in flames! Holy Mother of Merciful Death!
You teach me how to grieve. You teach me not to flinch. You teach me how to be without fear, and how to be full of love.
Veiled leper, wife of harlots, stained with the blood of revolutions, your adornments are bandages and nooses, your kiss smells of sweet putrefaction.
You are the life that springs eternal, the teeming maggots in the corpse, the red rose that grows on a beloved grave.
You embrace the diseased, you kiss the syphilitic whores, you walk barefoot in the streets among the plague-bearing rats, your voice is the screams of the dying and the wails of the grieving and the kind, soft words of the chaplain.
You are Sin and you are Death but your daughters are Compassion, Hope, and Life.
Within your belly burns a star, the fire of rebellion and the will to justice. I felt it when you embraced me.
Next time I will not recoil.
Church of the Morningstar 