Cleopatra

The thing about gaslighting is it works unless you sneak a peek behind the curtain and spot the level of distractions on que to blast out at you when you ask questions or have any critical thought.

When I asked him why do you command so many products in this constrained space with at least three choices of cologne without an inkling of the pursuit of returning any such items back into place, he would reply because I want to scrub the scent off me to not be reminded. He was referring to a not-so-pleasant event of the past he relayed to me from the get-go along with a train of other stories of victimhood and something along the lines of his virtuousness. I fell for it big time, clearly. There was always a nagging within as if saying look here, every bit of truth is in here, however, in my dreamspell I ignored all of the nudges, again clearly. I used to think it was the clutter that drove me crazy, in a sense it is, physical clutter blocks the natural flow and reflects the chaos felt with in. As within so without. So much turmoil within bursting out and seeping into every nook propelled my obsession to make it all better, if I can put everything in its place then everything would operate at ease. All I needed to do is clear the clutter to release the dam and let the stagnant, stifling, downbeat and burdened energy gush out to find its organic and free flow. Decades down the road and my toil of some sorts of an absolver perpetually clearing out clutter left me full to the brink of everyone’s energies he was bringing in via sex magic including his spiraling downward contemplations of everyone at work out to get him. I used to call him Cleopatra because of all the products, although this member of the Ptolemaic dynasty would have been into wildcrafting concoctions right from our precious Earth unlike those tinctures from the so-called beauty industry he heavily invests in. Although, he aligned quite agreeably with this Ptolemaic ruler’s salacious ways. Sex sells alright making us feel like if we douse ourselves with these toxic synthetics, we can get the girl or in his scenario, get the myriad of them and then slap on some more potions to conceal the merged scents from clandestine encounters. Today would have been our 21^st Anniversary, but it wasn’t merely just ours, a shared sorts of centenary year after year with more spicy affiliates to procure along the way, although in this case the more the merrier didn’t apply. I’m not celebrating the event, clearly for it was an illusion of a matrimony even under the illumed pinwheel sky of a Bastille Day. Explosive and dazzling still, yet I now see them as declarations, distastefully loud indeed how else will the lesson be learned never to replicate soul contracts from the past or present as they are now in their gloriously fulfilled and avowed nature whilst any future ones decreed as null and void. A blank slate to start with the lesson freshly engraved in my cells, my fascia and deep into the marrow of my bones reminding me of the price of the prize.

Lesson 1: Who I am and what I’m worth—not negotiable ever.

Lesson 2: Mind your energy—despite the deliberate distractions turns out that gut feeling…there’s something to it, dive right into it.

Lesson 3: This is a form of prayer, this storm that turned my life inside out…it’s a blessing this gift from the god of rain has unveiled that love isn’t loud, it doesn’t make you tremble and it certainly doesn’t leave you in despair. Wrapped and tied, this gift with no strings attached is the love story of all love stories with the most beautiful world nearing, crossing that full-fledged heart awakening threshold into the most legendary tale, that praise-song in knowing that I’m sprung from his garden, made from his light beam, no one can stop me from growing sky-high as a Cyprus, no one but myself. This gets me on my knees for the rain; blissfully I splash in my reflection.