September 22nd, a monarch with tense shoulders ambles about a castle sweating over how to regain popularity with his subjects. Though he holds the most power in the land, he secretly runs from his own pride and uniqueness. Panting and yearning to win the approval of those who, on the surface, depend on his light for sustenance, he exhausts himself. Torches in the kingdom wane in the vigor of their fires as pressure to bear the burden of the Other’s passion and vitriol forces its steam.
We’re the populace and the ruler, and spread out around the land there are landmines, into which some tumble to darkness, and bulletholes, black centers into which the grounded splendor of the king’s creativity plummets to an unknown destination. The formation of these free-falling centers is prompted by dogmatic bait and placeholder concepts that trigger our reptilian brains and righteousness. The baggage of the alternate urges to fight back and please comes through like hoarded suitcases falling out of once-invisible closets.
A crocodile’s mouth provides the unexpected source of refuge, carrying us on its tongue. In the back, near the tonsils, an angelic light illuminates the salivary glands that hydrate the soul, nourishing it for what it is— neither self-satisfied edifice nor depleted pleaser, but a multi-perspectival conduit bravely facing the abyss, aware of the light that awaits.