The Twelfth House on A Faultline: House of the Psychic

I stared at a spot on the floor with the well-lit display of alcohol gift sets in my peripherals.  I thought, “This could be the night that die.  Plain and simple, it could be.  I am not exempt.  I am not God’s chosen.  We go through our lives completely oblivious to our deaths.”  Is that the twelfth house?  All the veils are thinner.  The energies are no longer muted and subtle.

I start drinking and keep drinking – very Twelfth House.

Entered at the end where the graves are newer, I pick up a residual.  I don’t realize until later when I lie sleepless in my bed with the Kraken rolling in my stomach, burning the lining like the demon it is.  I have the sweats and open my window.  I smell the mildew of the dark corner outside my window.  I’m reminded of my visit that day to the cemetery.  I touched a bouquet of flowers.  They were tilted.  I tried to stand them upright.  When it happened, when I was there walking among those graves nothing felt wrong.  Now, I feel I am stuck back there.  I am really left back in that cemetery.  I picked up a residual.  Something stayed alive with me.  I picked up a parasite of energy.  It has solidified into me.

I feel filthy and I have the sweats.  I keep smelling bad things.  Maybe it is the mold growing in the corner under the tree outside my window.  The mixture of graveyard psychic residual and the mildew that grows in wet dirt dark compounds.  There will be no sleeping.  The Kraken has been released in my stomach and he feels like hell burning.

 

Realizing, I mean really REALIZING that death is a blind corner away.   And that night a lyric jumped at me from a beloved song I listened to religiously in high school.  It finally strikes me that that is a very creepy line.  “Beneath the dust, and love and sweat that hang on everybody there’s a dead man trying to get out.” – Adam Duritz

“The time is getting closer.  The time to be a ghost.”  I could be a ghost.  This detachment walking through life, am I dead or alive?

At times I close my eyes to meditate and feel like I have a great standing wave of presence ready to overwhelm me.  I am a shattered moment away.  I have taken my separation for granted.  There is a looming face burning at the edges and the membrane has become nothing more than a blinking cursor of static. Or.  I’ll feel like the corners of my mind are made of helium balloons that are quickly floating up one by one.

Watching a blue flame burn at the edge of the paper

Wishes dissolving into ether

Climb up the ladder to reach past

this pain picked up everywhere from everything

sit with the deep cut until you can call it sweet

the twelfth house: house of bad poetry, drug addiction and the edge of sanity.

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