The vessel where I store myself is permeable;
I want to be able to get out, should the need arise. Mostly, though,
I am content within earthenware walls,
With lid closed tightly above me, so I don’t leak out onto the floor.
I’ll percolate in here, or maybe ripen.
The air is moist; I breathe, and my skin is still and cool.
But under there all manner of things writhe and twist, weave and twine,
And ply their limbs along my bones.
This is not a process fit for public consumption.
When all mystics speak mystic (and they do),
It doesn’t matter if they hear you scream. They’ve been down
This road before. Even so, shifting on an elemental level
Is not the prettiest thing they’ve seen.
And for those who have not, or can not, or will not (it doesn’t matter which),
Logic overtakes the lack of reason needed
To fold oneself in tiny squares, to remove the parts that need
Analysis, and study them.
It is an exceedingly tight fit in this jar.
Lack of reason it is, but just the same there are reasons for this;
To become, I must inhabit the parts I most dislike.
I must know them inside-out, and so I turn myself that way.
I curl into a ball and wall myself up to be cut loose.
Within the mystibabble is something worth remembering:
That this is chosen, that we break ourselves to fix ourselves,
That our heads split open to be put back, over and over again,
That transformation is a violent, gory process.
And in the end, we’re something more.