Lack Of Cogent Vision


I need to define my vision.  I must, must, must, clarify my most basic desires and needs and therefore manifest them. 

Elsewise, I flounder and manifest first this, then that, and my darkest dreams dancing within my underworld taint or mar or drive my creations without my utter consent.

A loving man?  A loving me?  Live alone and live my witchlife?  Comprehend the nature of reality?  Success in writing?  In work?  In efforts of the mind, or of heart, or of spirit? 

WHAT THE HELL DO I REALLY WANT?

And do I have the slightest idea of how to really get it?  What weaving of words?  What images of mind?  What crystallization of  truths?

I think I want love.  But is this my soul’s true path?  Or should I be wanting to be free from consumate relationship so that I can be the sex healing goddess I once dreamed I would be?  Is absorbing the evils of a single cruel soul worth the cost I inflict upon myself, or should I opt now for a gentler, more loving of myself path of healing in small way many more while I now heal myself?  Or should I find a way to craft both together?

WHAT DO I MOST DESPARATELY, DEEPLY, DESIRE TO BE, DO, EXPERIENCE, OFFER, CREATE, EFFECT, FEEL, NEED?

And if I write that spell/chant/explicit/one single choice out of the multitude of possibilities, just as with a genie and the three questions, will I possibly craft with such exquisite clarity without mistake or misconstrue or other means that the genie can undo that which the querant wishes?  What if I attempt, but find that in my attempt to manifest what is best/purest/cleanest/sweetest,that at heart I do not believe enough that is even possible, desirable, necessary, purposeful that I would even allow myself such an idyllic existence?

I feel my clock winding down.  I feel my beauty transient lest I manifest myself to believe it worthwhile.  I feel my sexuality tenuous with age and with defeat that none would want to drink of my well of passion from a saggy, soggy vessel.  I feel a panic which may drive me into the flames, or over the cliff, or swimming to the depths rather than toward the clean, clear air of light and love and truth of self.

WHAT THE HELL DO I REALLY WANT?

I have seen hints, scents wafting upon the wind, but they are ephemeral and although I set my nose to follow that smell of roses and warm earth, I am uncertain from which direction they came.  So I drift, like a bacterium testing the waters to and fro, a mot ancient of patterns, grasping at tiny hints that they might lead me to the source.

And is the source with me all along? 

And if so, what then?

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