Full transparency? I’m still reeling from the punches. From the endless shifting from one position to another and somehow coming into place. At least, it seems so, where the lines become more clear, the challenges become identified and right-action can take place.

Honestly it all feels surreal. Like i’m finally putting some pieces together while also wondering if i’m just in another spiral, another movement, another whirl around the wendigo-round. Now, as in now-now, i’m actually writing in my own space, something I wonder if I should have started years ago and in what feels like the trying on of clothes, save that the clothes are made of letters and time and sort of strung together in a cat’s cradle of cosmic potency and other celestial things.

There’s a purity, to be sure. Something that just screams “this is my thing!” to myself, where the tapping of my fingers on the keys brooks no judgment, no questions of marketing or the masses, just simply writing-for-the-sake-of-writing. Of getting my thoughts out there, in the space, in the Mythica, stepping into my own skin – or so it seems.

Yet skins change. They flow like feathers over water, changing the shape of how we see the world in how we see ourselves, molting like magma across new earth. There’s a shifting that occurs in the space, one that speaks to my own transformation from within, ringing in the heartsong that doesn’t want to market itself as a coach or a guide, but rather as an author, a director, a filmmaker presenting from the edifice of my own hard-won design, through the temple of Story that is the Mythica and the telling of my story-over-time. There’s a sense of authenticity, of stretching into something that sits inside, of pulling my gaze away from the endless reincarnations and pantheons of personality across social media into the song that sings back, that kisses me from a mirror’s lips and sits in a place of esteemed allowance, where I let myself expand into the Mythica, into the telling of the tale.

It is, ultimately, what I want, and finding the space where we we want is the sweet spot of embodiment, where the inner childe finds agreement with the outer adult and things actually-get-accomplished.

You wouldn’t think to look at it. To see the vastness of the temple, the timeline stories, the photos, the maps, the comics and the videos, and think that I had been struggling all this time, but things always look different on the inside, and I know i’ve spun around this carousel more times than i’d like, working my way through acrobatics of inverted gravity where safety nets become bondage, telling convincing lies that what we’re doing is what we should be doing in a spiral of repetition that just goes nowhere. Or so it seems.

There’s a voice, of course. A small voice that speaks to coherence, or at least to what others may-or-may-not recognize as coherence, one that wants to present things a certain way to the audience. Yet to paraphrase Alan Moore, art isn’t done for the audience, at least, not an outer audience. No, art is done for ourselves. It’s done as an act of exploration, an exfoliation of the soul and the senses, a divination into the symbols and portents that make up our own unique myth and meaning. It’s a thing of intense inner forging, where each keystroke, each breath of idea and it’s birth upon the page signifying a movement within the self that unlocks yet another piece of our self from whatever guardian-turned-jailor that held us back. It’s the tapestry of our poetry, the thing that hangs in the hallowed halls of our inner motif, and is, in it’s way, the bible of our personal transformation. The allowance of self to be itself, free from the criticisms and the fearful strategists that lay within the within, a sacred contract of felt navigation whose purpose is revealed only in action.

Will it be read? Should it be read? Am I mixing the metaphors of the Mythica’s “purposing” to explore the tender places where I haven’t been speaking my highest truth to myself? Or is this the healing, the movement from the idea-of-marketing something other than myself, trusting that the movement forward is it’s own shamanism of the soul, both the gatekeeper and the gateway to the next phase of what can be?

Full transparency? I don’t know. My life has been a thing of faith and mistrust in simultaneous amounts, finding my way through spirals of story have led me to this point. And in such a place, all one can do is trust.