Sometimes
I still wonder who I really am at the core, even after all these years of
intensive soul-searching. I'm older now,
but in one way or another I've been seeking the truth since I was ten years
old. I've spoken here before of my
childhood dreams of a strange ghostlike star. A star that I wanted to
believe was also an angel. Even at such
a young age I wanted to understand the mysteries of life, ourselves, and our
connection to each other. This wasn't
and isn't some facile indulgence. It
meant everything to me. It still does. I remember feeling so distant from the other
kids when I was growing up. A head full
of visions, dreams and nightmares. I
remember how tired and old I felt even in my early teens. I knew it was an odd feeling, and yet it
wasn't new. An unnerving Deja-vu seemed
infused into everything. I guess that's
the eerie result of sometimes knowing things before they happen. Life feels alien yet hauntingly familiar. I felt more at home among poems, memories and
ghosts than real people. That strangeness
hasn't gone away. I live with it daily.
That's
why these artist’s pages matter so much, I suppose. Where else can I share the full complexity of
those beautiful and sometimes terrifying experiences? The people in my personal life have wonderful souls but they are only ready for mere glimpses of the unseen world. I carry most of this knowledge alone for the
simple reason that I don't want to frighten or burden the people I love the
most. It's a difficult path to walk,
being sighted in this way. I often use this
ability to create various forms of magic. To delight or intrigue, to spread joy and
appreciation. But there's a shadow side
to all that wonder. The world is filled
with both light and dark. The divine
expanse of our imaginations contain both angels and demons, devas and asuras. I'm all too happy to share the light, but the
darkness I face alone. It can be such a
crushing weight to carry. But then,
that's the case for so many of us, isn't it? Psychic or otherwise. We all have trauma and struggles that we can
barely articulate. It's a difficult
thing sometimes to receive love, or accept help, especially when we feel wounded. A tragic irony; that in these times we often
feel too brittle, too exhausted, and a helping hand can be confused for pity. Nobody wants to feel weak or incapable. We’re all trying to chart a course, no matter
the odds against us.
I
think that's why I was so fascinated by the idea of stars as a child. I was intrigued by the old explorers who
mapped their voyages by following those glinting diamonds in the dark. Ghost-lights, I called them. Lanterns for the lost. Tiny points of brilliance in the night sky
that were actually something far, far grander. The ghosts of midnight suns. Perpetual flames that once burned with
unimaginable ferocity, enough to warp the fabric of reality itself. Enough to bend the boundaries of both time and
space. I knew that I would become a
ghost one day, like the sun. And so I’d ask
myself, "What really matters to me when space and time don't work like
they're supposed to? What do I truly
want to live for in a world where magic is real? What might I be willing to actually die for?"
Getting older hasn't changed the answers
to those questions. I have more scars
now, more experience, but my moral compass is still the same one I treasured as
a boy. A winged compass that keeps my eyes
skyward. I'm still using the stars to
guide me. Still making use of those
lanterns when I'm lost. For me it's about
completing a warrior's work. It's about
making a commitment to God, to the higher powers, to creativity itself. Even as a boy I wanted to use my gifts to help
people, no matter the cost. I knew all
too well of the unseen. I understood
that divinity was real, but what good was that knowledge if it was mine
alone? And so I wanted to serve my Father
in the only way I knew how. Through creating
art.
Religion,
spirituality, gnosis – call it what you want. It was always a very real and important
dimension to my life. I saw things that
other people couldn't see. I knew things
that other people didn't know. This
placed a very particular kind of responsibility upon me. Whether I liked it or not. Believe me, I often hated it with a passion. I cursed the heavens and the earth, but it
never stopped me from wanting to help. These
artist’s pages are where I feel most at home. This free-verse angelic script; it's the journal
of a spirit forever trapped in the demimonde. For the rest of my life I'll never be able to truly
leave this place, but that's ok. I know
I was put here for a reason. It's incredibly
bittersweet, but I have friends – dear and distant souls – who read these pages
with genuine care. In a way these souls
know me better than many of the people in my daily life. These pages allow those souls to be privy to my
innermost depths in a way that cannot be conveyed in ordinary terms. So, of course I feel close to them. I believe that spirituality isn’t abstract or
transcendental. I believe it’s a living,
breathing continuum. It means so much to
have friends who are willing to explore that continuum with me. Thank you for that. These distant, ephemeral connections mean
more than I can ever say. I tell you now,
without these lanterns I would be lost. Some
of my dearest friends are ghosts – distant stars – but they've already taught
me so much. I hope I've been able to
give back something as equally useful.
Something insightful or uplifting. If a connection is meaningful and honourable
doesn’t that make it real in some way? After
all, what's really real to a ghost, or to an angel wreathed in stars?
