Uncategorized

THE LIGHT THIEVES

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THE LIGHT THIEVES
(a bash back)

SUMMER 2016 marked a significant shift in my trauma healing. The rips, bends and shreds of both my waking and nightmare’s had begun to take a vicious turn. This has turned out to be a remarkably good thing, an unexpected mend. Although I never thought I’d feel the warmth at the end of my psychological trauma noose.

I have come to a place, mentally and spiritually of allowing, a slow awakening. A process of continuous slow cycles, I believe I have been preparing myself subconsciously to face my demons my mind has been increasingly in a slow spin pace for a very long time. Now I have reached my ready point for change.

My increasing waking and sleep terror’s have been erupting in my mind allowing more and more sensory explosions to occur. So much so that I may once again feel myself becoming whole, I have become internally undone in order to become one. I may now become the man I had yet to fully allow myself to be. The great hold up of the the Light Thieves that have held on to me captive since November of 2011 has finally begun to shift. May we all find our path to our truth temples and created destinies.

FOR THE NEW READER
After being gang raped in November 2011 by 11 men I lived in addiction and denial. It took all the love, light and patience that I could slowly muster to survive. A great deal of personal compassion and intuition was needed to move me ever so slowly on this journey. If I did not believe in some form of greater good, purpose or energy I most certainly would gone mad, lived in a state of continual suicidal mode or would have been arrested for homicide by now. Or the obvious option #black, found alone dead which is preferable to being trapped in an endless dark addiction spiral of destructive living, but here I am.

I am graciously grateful for the 10,000 opportunistic movements of personal, social and spiritual growth that this conglomerate of experiences has allotted me. But do not get me wrong, it fucking sucked and detoured my life perfectly and disproportionately.

SWEET AND LOOSE
The sweet reward of all of these night mares has been the recent rush of finally winning. I went from November of 2011 to March 2015 before I began to understand how deeply effected I was by my “Hall of Mares.” Very few had I remembered, generally partners, dates or roommates would fill me in on the screams, tears, and boxing matches on the day or night after a good round with the boy’s. Fighting it out in my subconscious, literally to death.

March 2015 was one of the first major waking terrors that lasted on and off for 3 days’s. All of my terrors had all been loosing battles of rape, bashing, thieving, and life threats up until these last few weeks when something unusual had taken place.

I had enough, I simply had enough, I had been ill and in a deep exhaustive sleep. One night while in a cold coma an attack thick and heavy crept in around me. In my safe non safe space (until you heal there are no safe spaces of the mind) one of my 11 attackers came for me in my dreams. I saw his face in perfect detail, beautiful young, cocoa and flawless with little boy ears. Short cropped hair, innocent eyes breathing warm and sensual danger in my face with the encouragment of his evil mentor. His body tight smooth, narrow shouldered … God! I could cry for him, this was a kid… he was a 22 year old child, just a lost child of the night. (sorry I digress)

What makes this dream different from my other terrors are the details. I never remembered the intensity of any of their eyes, or how fragile many of them where until this particular dream. All of my real life attackers in my dreams always remained faceless up until this night. Whenever I had flashbacks, no matter how real, awake or asleep, no matter where they took place, on the street, in a store or in bed. In general I only remembered or “flashed” to the sensations and the words used during the rape. The sensations I recalled in my horrors where the penetrations and the brute violence, the fear, of the event, never any exact details of the faces or bodies. The terror blocks it out, the electric blast of my brain created a protective white noise screen protector over the memory pane.

I only could remember the pain, the force, the blood dripping, the breath, the smells, the ripping of my flesh, never any faces. The darkness, the choking, the restraints, and my screaming, never any faces. I’d remember the sensations of the rape, not the faces, never ever the faces although the rape went on for hours with the lights on.

Denial is so beautiful, a protective blanket soft and luxe. I know that I am ready now to move forward, now that I am able to remember some of these eyes, mouths, bodies and textures.

On the night of December 22, 2016 I awoke the next morning with a room looking as if an exorcism had just taken place. My bed frame broken in two, a lamp laying stacked across my face, and a chocker neckless clutch in my hand. Surrounded by clouds of tear soaked tissues and my usual balled comforter and sheets. A few lingering memories, most sketchy and that was all. I had finally begum to bash back the Light Thieves, my rapist and the winner is finally me. I remember one thing, I fought back and I won!

I recall waking seeing one of my attackers with a “slave” collar around his neck. I grabbed the necklace hanging off of my nightstand lamp in real time. While pulling the necklace in my subconscious state I thinking it was his collar. I ended up pulling the lamp onto myself. I remember screaming with voice finally. NOT THIS TIME MOTHER FUCKER, GET THE FUCK OUT. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, I AM SICK OF THIS SHIT GET FUCK OUT NOW.

This was the beginning of the release of my rapist, my light thieves. My subconscious had at last become empowered to say NO and finally bash back my bashers. In my dream state world I would no longer be a victim, no longer attacked and loosing. Now I was the victor and changing the game plan. This is huge, these are now my rules, finally a breakthrough that is worth noting.

The dream world can be powerful tool, foretelling the truth a possibilities in ones active waking hours. Now that I have finally taken ownership of my power over these imaginary attacks I am able to move forward with out fear or inner corruption.

*an update, as of August 9th 2017 I have yet to have a rape night-mare that I am consciously been aware of or a day-mare….knock on wood. Hang in there, hope… there is always tremendous hope. We humans are wonderfully resilient.

Love and Light Always
The Empowered Runt

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adult male rape, Selfportraits, trauma, Uncategorized

THE MOST DANGEROUS THING

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Unfiltered, here I am, naked, no decorative words, no room for flounce, not now, not within the womb of this cool circumstance. Raw and writing, it is we, it is he, Fernando along with the others which equal the new entirety of me.

I’ve decided no longer does it matter if there is an audience for my words or images. I now write because I need to write, I create my art because it is not only an essential part of my creative expression. It is a necessary segment of the healing equation, I still fall back on these words “art saved my life”.  Now I write with a slant on the unfiltered, just me and my selves. If another is helped as I stagger on my current path of wonder and stumble all the more glorious. Perhaps the flow of these writings will read more organically without the hindrance of self-criticism of thought, word, art and tongue.

I am afraid I am finally facing the raw fact that my trauma has become one bitch of a battle. It is increasing in bite and fervor. Sobriety has been a song and one I don’t give much of a shake about, even with all my trauma bullshit I have not thought once about drugs to deal with it. The trauma however is rupturing, ripping, splitting and soaring through the roof of my being. I am not sure who is winning in this wrestling match of wills. I do know I am not happy with the feelings beating me up each day, leaving me exhausted, bruised and raw.

Most days my thoughts are so tangled that I make no sense speaking. When I do manage to speak I often trip up my vocals. I mutilate simple sentences for example, ga-ga-ga-goo-goood goood morning. For a normally fairly grounded intelligent sounding person it becomes a bit humiliating. I often rock back and forth when I am alone typing, channeling my never existent autistic youth.

Yesterday, despite my gut intuition, I met with a therapist for the second time. It took me almost five years to reach a point where I was capable of receiving “professional” help. I understand fully that he has not been trained in trauma recovery, and may not even be queer sensitive. But surely he has a degree, and I assume based on his appearance he is of the human species. I also hope he had entered this field with an empathic heart, he does not seem old enough to be jaded and over his profession, or is he?

Aside from him being late for the second appointment in a row (note both appointments). Cutting me off, not hearing my needs then telling me to ignore my feelings. He then instructed to “Move on” “get over my past” to “get my old job back full time” please note I can barley function in my current part time position. I was instructed to “change my thoughts”  again. I explained this is something I do all day through many spiritual and personal teachings, meditations and techniques I have even developed along my personal journey.  I explain what someone in trauma goes through. I explained that I/we need tools to move forward and heal, I explained that I/we would like to learn how to cope with the subconscious thoughts that strike in the middle of night. Example: when I/we wake tossed on the floor in the middle of the night. Living out a rape, how do I/we move past that… I am enraged right now simply thinking of this session… yet I am moving forward I can not even finish this paragraph. _ RAW WRITING.

A bad therapist is the next worst thing to the actual traumatic event itself. I can not imagine anyone speaking these same words to someone who has just comeback from a tour of duty or lost their family to some horrific action of violence. I suppose a gang rape to faggot is just another disposable crime even in the eyes of a therapist. (please note the wrong therapist I know the majority are absolutely brilliant)

An average day for me, requires about 3 hours of meditation just to make out the door. Before I can go to my humble semi-stress free part time job. About once or twice a week I have at least one severe flash back during my waking hours. Two weeks ago, while walking down my block I hallucinated a full on rape, asshole ripping open, choking, suffocation, blood, restrained arms up against a fence the full nine yards. That was a pretty average scenario as of late. The week after the same situation took place while I was writing while sitting on a bench in the local park looking at trees. Boom out of the blue, restrained, suffocation, notebook on ground etc…. but this is my current unreality. “don’t think about it” he says. Again I say… seriously?

Last night three nightmares woke me up, usually I do not much of them, only the fighting, sweats, screams etc. But they are becoming more vivid as of late. Today I had to leave a simple task job after only an hour, because I freaked the F*@K out. My 10 minute walk home took about an hour, I was in a trance state the entire time. I crashed from exhaustion upon my arrival home (rather where I stay). More daymares, physical fighting and screaming and kicking. And he tells me “change your thoughts” “move on” I think to my self again, sarcastically, seriously?…I sorry I just forget to come out of trance states and nightmares to say “get happy” “get over it” Move On”….

Yes “change your thoughts” I agree completely, I do it all day everyday, minute by minute. This roller coster practice is enough to drive any normal person insane. I gently participate in many meditation techniques and lovingly embrace every fricking letting go method there is. But I can not delete reality, when something has never been dealt with it has to come out somewhere. Fact? or Fiction?

The most dangerous thing to a person in trauma recovery is… and I will say this again and again. Is having an unqualified person sitting opposite them on the other side of a desk when you are in therapy. This is not only dangerous it is negligent and can even be lethal. Last evening I felt so hopeless, lower than I have been, and closer to ending my life than and period in recent history. But I am as stubborn man, I will make it through this. Salt stains and all, I may not have much say during this period of my life that is up lifting. My core self is still in here somewhere, and it will come to the surface again. Until then, however long that takes be well be kind and be loving the best you can.

Thank you-

 

 

 

 

 

 

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addiction, Uncategorized

ONE YEAR RESTING

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It has now been a little over a year since my last drug use. I share no pride nor surprise about this news, it just is what it is. It came about in a dramatic ending in a masterful collaboration between the forces that be and me. I attracted the situation that led to an overdose and the rest is history. I have never had a serious desire to step back into the meth death pool to date.

Addiction, a word I have never cared to use, and respectfully encourage limited use of with others. “Addiction”not my issue, my theories surrounding addiction continue to be supported time and time again. Addiction is not the root of the “problem” it is the result of an inner issue, a deeper issue, not the cause. I’d like to take a moment at this time to encourage anyone who is working on “addiction” issues. If comfortable, to let go of terms such as disease, addiction, or defective along with a few others used in traditional 12 step program (not a dis). And for a few moments refocus on some positive concepts.

First I would like to state there are no defective human beings. Many of us have been exposed to some tough experiences in our younger years, have had learning issues, specifically on the autism spectrum or started using in our teens or twenties. In some cases we may have experienced or witnessed a trauma of some sort or experienced great loss.

The majority of heavy substance use or other acting out behavior. Is in fact based not so much on “addiction” rather as behavior patterns. An inside reaction to an outside occurrence, love yourself enough to care correctly for yourself. LISTEN TO YOUR GUT!

No one in my eyes can get healthy from any situation in life based on being told they are defective. Or told daily that they are an addict and always will be. This is like trying to go to school to get an education and being told you are stupid everyday.

This of course is only my opinion based on my amazing little journey in life. But I have seen a lot of shit, I have been to hell and back a few times. I believe we are all good people, we are simply learning, living, healing and being. I believe that love is what heals, there are many methods of support, there are many ways to heal and move forward. If you can’t find a way, make one up, it worked for me.  I have found that many people have very good intentions based on the intentions of those before them. But it does not mean that they have a clue to what you are going through.

Find your quiet space in your heart, let it guide you to the right place should you need outside guidance, help or even medical.

If  you are insanely over the edge as I once was, hang in there, remain open, trusting and honest. Meth is tricky, and it messes with your head, if you are still in the messy zone you have to trust another until you have clarity… enough said. I leave my words resting here.

Love and Light Always
The Empowered Runt

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guncontrol, orlando, Peace, Uncategorized

MOW-MY ONLY WISH

MOW
Music: The Journey
By: Elliot Goldenthal
From: Frida Soundtrack

PT 1: DEATH AND RESPECT
chicago vigil for the orlando massacre
PT 2: PASSAGES THROUGH DARKNESS
mourning & contemplation
PT3: FUTURE LIFE
rebirth, hope, love, light “one tribe”

A TEMPORRAY FEELING:
I am a simple man, pale in palettes of formal education and training, often I stumble for words and my technique can be on the primitive. At the time of this writing, my tone is overshadowed by casualties, bullets and hate.

The original direction of this piece was intended as a video offering only. Created to honor the victims of the Orlando massacre that had taken place on the evening of June 12, 2016. As words wrestled within my head for voice and release, I eventually concluded I had no other choice than to set them free. Allowing them to roam as they may as co-creators for peace in flux’s of love and rage.

Many of us feel wounded, as we attempt to make sense of this deeply dark fundamental wrong that has riveted near and through innocent young bodies. We may not know how to label, understand, or harness our own emotions during these times, this is only natural. Keep in mind many are sharing these same experience and we must gently strive to be sensitive, restorative, loving and aware of each others human condition. Take pride in your sensitivities, take pride in your awareness, take pride in your ability to be a peacekeeper. These are actions of love, actions we take for the living and in honor of those who have gone.

The effects of mass trauma and emotional unrest belong to no specific age, gender, race, or tribe. As creatures of this earth we are all connected, the energy that can flourish from an intense tragedy is often manifested in emotional or an energetic density. Although this energy is not visible to everyone, it is thick enough on a sensory level that most can feel it. Think “bad or heavy-vibes.” In times especially like these again I stress the importance of being patient, kind and loving in all of our actions. Be aware of misplaced feelings within yourself as well as your peers. Post tragedy or trauma is often a time when people “act out” in ways they normally may not.

Many of these “heavy vibe” or “static emotion” energies you may sense around you have been sparked by the Orlando 49 tragedy. Along with the countless other “casualties” of gun violence who have met their fate without choice, without prayer and assuredly with little or no voice. These absurd situational moments of continual repeat seem anything but casual to me.

I made this video specifically to honor the lives lost during the “O/49” massacre on the day I ironically began my 53rd year of living. Intended as an energy transfer, less self more light. It only seemed to have backfired, pricking a temporary fury. Fractionally due to an outbreak of local violence. One day following the final video edit, here in this normally quite cluster of blocks where I reside. In what I often refer to as the Park of Oaks, a full on police shut down was enforced as yet more shootings echoed from corner to expressway. I asked the empty air and blue sky above, why and when will these reckless shootings end? In Chicago firearm violence continues to exceed expectations. I ask again asked the same questions of my God, Angels and Guides…TELL ME WHEN WILL IT END, this self dismemberment of society, when will it end?!?

Oh these middle ages of mine, toss me increasingly into fits of anger. My spiritual roots once more lapse into a dry black upheaval. My philosophies appear to be nothing more than smoke, mirrors and several hanks of question marks. Robe of light that cloaks my soul I toss you once more into my surrender fire. Drenched in the collective blood of my sisters and brothers. In hope of spiritual cure and lift. I/we must remain lustful for hope – I have begun to question this “hope” that has always saved me from depths of black. To question hope is a dangerous space for anyone to believe in, a frightful place, not made for the weak of spirit or mind. Those with a vacant conscious or the yearling of new souls. will find existing with questionable or no hope difficult to seed, flourish or be at peace in.

FROM WHERE I SIT:
Shredded tween vacant legs, and scattered head. I look down upon my trembling heart begging for attention, not rejection. I see a golden spear of light that spikes bright. Ignored by choice, I just can’t, I no longer can trust my heart speak. (I correct myself) I can, it is more that I fear trusting my heart in this moment earthly chaos. I have begun to cave, this global static is to much for sensitive digestion. My nerves have been numbed by my own routine life let alone the mounting bullets and gravestones.

I stare at my pulsing muscle of life as it gleams like gristle covered in fresh spit and one last tear. Burnt by front page news it murmurs in sorrowed tones while sucking dust off cool grass neath my feet. As I sit in my beloved Columbus Park. In a moment of quite earth solace and distorted “head space” meditation. My eyes are unable to blink, in poor posture, I wilt forward with my willow branched back. Heavy, with weight and query I continue to count the wasting hours, I loose track of minutes and light. Immobile, from where I sit, I wonder have I really given up on listening to my higher self. My higher self that dwells soft light and patient within, above, around and whithin all things. As my ignored heart continues to beg for ear and understanding. I insist that it only speaks a language of my lost “GODS” translation. You see, I have allowed my natural human experience of anger and doubt to temporarily clutter my interpretations of light and clarity. This to shall pass as they say, I sometimes dislike these slogans but … TTSP.

THE “H” WORD:
Hate is a feeling my source-self does not understand, not in any true sense of the word. Even with the acts of extreme violence used against and within my own flesh I have never come to a point of true gut “hate” towards those 11 men. Anger… YES, Rage… YES, Hate NO. Absolutely never a desire to act out in any criminal, spiritual, physical or humanly unjust way. I do not understand this craving to dismantle a human life. Or to disfigure the natural flow and progression of another persons experience with intent. I understand we all have an effect on each-other, this is part of the beautiful rhythm of our existence, this is why we are here. For us abruptly reroute or dismember a persons path is unthinkable either by weapon or word.

PAPER TEARS:
Tired eye’s flutter shut like pages from a book of required tween-age reading. After rest I pull up a photograph of a man crying on my phone. I, myself have exhausted almost all functions of ducts and flow. I now have become one of “them”… I have become emotionless. You know the type of man, he who shrugs his shoulders as evening news plays repeat of stories of death, wrecks, war or natural disasters. No! I refuse to be saturated with the essence of this particular breed of social disorder or personal conduct. I now liberate myself from my temporary diseased moment of void. A natural reaction to completely toxic situation induced by demon and man.

I am in shock, just as I had been as the twin towers crumbled down creating ash coated zombies. Dazed and mentally distorted as they shuffled empty eyed with pumps and wing tips in hand. One by one they passed my shop of employment as I and others much younger stood, stunned and vacant. I remember that September morning at the corner of Broadway and Houston as if it where this very second. It is the same echoed feeling that resonates when I shed denial once more entering into the throne room of remembrance of friends. Transcending in masses of static flashes from life to death. Zapping, up and out endless and fast. Some called it an epidemic, some called it a collective spiritual rise, I still do not don’t know what to call it.

That’s it! I now can excuse my moment of emotional vacancy, I am human that is all. Whatever it is, my need to fix thing’s once again begins to kick in and I cut a paper tear from one of my many journals. With a dab will do ‘ya of saliva, I place the paper tear beneath my right eye. Still numb, I bark out loud in self anger, “THIS IS ALL BULLSHIT!” and just as quickly pull the tear from my eye and release it to the elements. Looking back I laugh recalling the words “THIS SHIT IS ALL THEATER.” Speaking of my production of one. Maybe it is the essence of my emotions that are only worthy of reflection. Not the actions although I must admit enjoy the dark humor of it all.

I continued to sit in silence, self indulged almost void of self awareness. Between breaths, I vacillated between surrender, understanding, and feeling boggled by the madness of these senseless killings. I can’t release the reminders of 9/11, war, hate and long list of other tragedies dating far back as the early 60’s. The ash zombie faces of 9/11 and the O/49 are the ones I can’t shake from my mind. My rage ignites when I think of this need to constantly defend the use of guns and weapons. Oh my beautiful dutiful right, no thank you, your right is my wrong.

Stuck, I could not moderate the electric tremble of questions dodge balling my mind… Am I in a state of shock? Is this some sort of emotional overload? Am I in mourning? Is this a self pity? Am I exhausted? Over saturated by media, everything in my life/our lives? has the world gone insane? Or have I finally crossed “that” fine line, into emotional decline? Have I finally gone from being a sensitive to desensitized?

I suppose there is a global numbness that is effecting us all to some extent. Perhaps it has spliced my spirit between truth and fear, night and light. My Only Wish no matter what the case may be, as I move the “me” that is part of the universal “we” off to the side. Is LOVE, Love is all I wish for – love, we all posses it, we all desire it, we are all capable of giving and receiving it. There are no fees, no taxes, no requirements. My Only Wish – MAY THERE BE EQUAL AND ABUNDANT LOVE FOR ALL. 

Love and Light Always
The Empowered Runt

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HIV, Uncategorized

POZ-29/30

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(HEART CHAKRA INFUSION)

From 1981 through 1987, new HIV/AIDS cases and fatalities doubled roughly every year. 1987 saw 40,000 deaths and nearly 50,000 new cases. And AZT hardly swooped in to save the day; in 1991, the CDC announced that one million Americans were infected.

Sunday, April 17, marked the 29th anniversary of the day I received the positive return on my HIV test results. I was only twenty four years of age at the time. just a kid really, although life had already matured me in many ways. Testing positive for the HIV virus honestly was not of any shock or surprise for me. Although my face went through the necessary expressions, almost out of politeness to the reader of these results. This was a planned infection and an expected diagnosis. This is a conversation I will sideboard for a separate writing, dealing primarily with a case of severe undiagnosed bipolar depression along with the many attachments that come with a complicated youth.

In the early days of HIV infection and AIDS. To find out that you had tested positive for the virus carried a great deal of dark weight. For many it still does, back in the day it often was considered a death sentence. During that period of time, at least speaking for the myself I lost lovers pals and icons through the battlefields of AIDS. Ignorance, government funding, religion, families, cultural indifferences, bureaucracy and the disease itself that showed little signs of slowing. All played a part in the war zone of AIDS.

During this time many men walk the streets visually looking like living corpses. Savagely thin, with other signs of fatigue, life fading from their flesh, lifting from their hearts vanishing from their eyes. Others choose to remove themselves from the social seen, understandably out of fear. Looking back I no longer blame them, fear is fear, it was about survival for many, a wake up call for some. On the other hand, some choose to push the envelope a little further into denial. Amping up the party favors or sex to excess. It is safe to say I danced in the pond excess with no regrets.

In reality it only made sense, that I too would eventually appear on the roster of death. Be it swift or slow, my time would come and I was sure to go. It did not seem to happen the way my friends and I thought, I am still here with a gratitude smile I continue to dance.

In the mid to late 1980’s AZT remained the primary toxic noose in use to batter the demons within our own blood cells and bodies. I am not here to argue the politics of the time or discuss conspiracy theories, that is past history, that I can not change. My only comment is do not be afraid to listen to your instincts. My intuition cried out to me the first time I opened my prescribed little white bottle of bi-colored capsules. For me I knew it was poison, the feeling nearly ruptured my nervous system. And I reacted accordingly without hesitation.

Upon arriving home I jiggled that packed plastic bottle of blue and white jimmies into my toilet bowl. I watched as they buoyed upon the shores of my porcelain sea. I paused for a moment with clear conscious, then gave them a confident flush and farewell. At this time in my life I was not so much a political person as I was an intuitive one. Years later, I was informed that this decision to discard the AZT may have been the best decision I could have made for my life. (please note this is not a medical advice column for another)

Now that I have entered my thirtieth year of living with HIV. I ask myself why am I still here? I do not know. I have never been hospitalized due to any HIV related issue. I have never had any “big” AIDS related illness’s and my T-cell’s have only dipped into the 300’s on a few occasions. Any “real” medical issue so far have been the result of situations strictly unrelated.

I am not sure how much of my HIV status defines who I am. I think it is more the fact that I am still here when so many are not. Crossing the threshold of thirty years is a significant moment in my life, I never thought about the importance of my status before. I am deeply moved and thankful, I can only assume I have lasted this long for a reason, like all of us.

I feel I have some “light” work to do. In my younger years, I was busy building a life resume of experiences, many of them thick and weighty. These last few years I have been in an accelerated course of healing with a vast absorption of knowledge. Perhaps I have stuck it out this long with a sheer determination and a soul understanding of my later years of living and my spirit mission.

I believe nothing in this life is a selfish act, we live, learn and share. This is the process of light, we radiate, we vibrate, we heal ourselves and each other. This is all part of making ourselves and each other whole. This is the beauty of all of life’s experiences, HIV or any other disease. All of life’s situations are an opportunity to grow and help another. Be it divorce, hard times, a tough day at school or work, it does not matter what we are experiencing in life everything and every moment has value. We live, love, learn, expand our hearts as we heal the world within and around us.

Love and Light Always
The Empowered Runt

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Images, Uncategorized

LOVE & POLITICS

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LOVE & POLITICS

Why I choose to sit at night to do these writings I am not quite sure. It is the worst of hours for me to put thought to text. My technique is foggy. I tend to spend the next few days manipulating a post with countless spell checks and jigsaw rewrites. I am the type of soul if I have something to say, I must release it from my being before the moment is lost. There is no time for refinement, the thought can not be contained. It is an injustice to my higher consciousness. The fear of loosing the essence of the moment is immense, I have learned from my past that once the moment of a topic I feel hot on my spiritual or emotional heals has been past. And I missed and the the immediate impact of release I also lost the capture of my fevered moment. The feelings that made the moment so important at the moment. Those nudges from above or within that pushed me to speak to begin with.

I am not a professional writer, nor a trained artist in any form, I am hardly educated at all, perhaps that is the beauty of blogging and the time that we live in. We now have a convenient freedom of voice, our ability to share our opinions and visions are accessible with each-other. Not long ago, unless you had a “zine” options for communication mass where limited. Other than public access television, affordable or approachable mass media and venues where limited.

Blogging may be looked upon as a glorified form of journaling, maybe I’m projecting a little zaps from my own mind map. I would like to think on occasion I do have something worth expressing for another to think about to chew on, or have a creative dialogue.

Love and Politics
My story has shifted over time, with focus less on my personal story, more and more on the global tribe. This for me is a reflection of human revolution and what healing from trauma looks like. Primary day elections take place tomorrow here in Illinois, my message remains the same always. VOTE! Vote from a place of LOVE, not, greed, anger, fear or prejudice let your highest self guide you. No I am not telling you who to vote for, your own TRUTH will do that for you.

I will leave this short, I have very strong feelings to express they will be shown in following post. Love is the highest denominator in all matters of resolve, power and transformation for all people, all situations. Thank you for reading-

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