The Archetype

Time passes, and momentum seems to build anthropomorphized by a comet in the sky, leaving a trail of fairy dust. 

The storyteller is, still. 

Equal parts, thoughtful, and thoughtless. Mindful and mindless. The break of Dawn ushers me once more into a digital portal to pseudo connection. Numb, my hand cradling its curves, feigning touch. And my avoidant ego searches for pseudo attachment. 

Proficient at doom’s day scrolling in a trancelike state, I am jolted into extreme awareness. An artist is decreed dead in my newsfeed. My artist. My eyes branded with the time stamp: 5:47 am. 

I frantically devour each word and pause at the realization: his was an end by choice. Ravaged, I understand his end was self-inflicted, and the his safety eject button was activated. Fully and most successfully. 

And so, one more tortured artist called to the edges of the horizon - chosen by the sacred geometry where the sky meets the ocean’s edge. One more moth summoned to the divine flame, which ultimately folds its faithful seeker into its body. Another perilous expedition transacts a sacred soul for the capture of one more authentic truth. 

Another sacrifice by an artist who braves the frontier, and by so doing releases us all from the pain if its isolated discovery. Another artist conquers a new darkness, to bring back the experience, and in so doing sparing his brethren. The ultimate of sacrifice for the benefit of the collective. 

On the surface, I am in awe of Tigre, and unfettered by his end. There is no emotional, psychological, spiritual, and metaphysical layer at which I do not understand him. No questions present, just knowing. 

In the depths, my person is silenced. I mourn this creator, grieve my friend, and adorn my archetype. Resisting the knowledge that his consciousness is now absorbed into the greatest of consciousness, my heart shatters into stillness. 

I reach out to the first branch accessible for semblance of solace. It’s presents in the form of a green dot on instagram. This communication ruptures my fragile peace. The dot asks if I knew him? I stare cold. The question, most audible, offends my being. 

Of course, I knew him! The Pistons of my heart fire with the force of an atom forcefully separated from self, and oxygen floods the chambers of my being. Blood discovers new pressures. 

Of course, I know him! I know his creation, and that is the utmost form of knowing him. I know his pure essence. I know his dance, his laugh, his presence. I know him. I know him. I know him.

In the Aleph, I awaken in an infinite layers. Absurd that I just learned his name and some mundane characteristics of this one life- for in this obvious contradiction, there is no part of him that is foreign to me. A logical fallacy in every way, a secret truth divined. 

Of course, I know him and know him still! An anthology of words flood the damn of this existence so strong, sentences pile into the figurative sky as far as the third eye can see. His struggle animates my every frame. 

I channel his primordial battle - revealed in his last form as well as present in the eons of dancing necklaces adorning his DNA. I know his pains. I know the metaphorical lines on his face as he contemplates - abounded by questions and ever further from their answer. 

I follow the markings on his spirit earned by traversing combat and battlefields. I glimpse his truth which reverberates, and its magnificent frequency pierces my deaf zones. 

To the modality of his death, I am overwhelmed by his compassion. I hold his secret choice and honor it. We share parallel frequency in vibration. 

I recall falling to my knees at the first experience of his dream monster representation. I worship his inner child in equal parts to his monster. Mine revealed to me in a mirror just the night before - less than 12 hours prior. Stone cold sober, my face distorted before me, and the body emaciated and spindly. It lurched in the reflection, ever aged standing on all fours. My entirety succumbed in fear; Yet, there was traces of self in this morbid reflection. This from my mind that had relinquished its imagination decades before. 

In the morning, the universe heard my dial tone, and presents me with Facing the Fearbeast by one Tigre Mashaal-Lively of Santa Fe. This author, my teacher. Reverence prevails and the Storyteller gains more blank pages in one more chapter. He and I share a dimension. We share a vocabulary. We share light, and we share darkness. 

Unknown to me in every monotonous state, pivotal to me in every nuance. In this iteration, I capitulate. My existence expands at this knowing. In an authentic rage, my ego aligns to the bare knowledge that Tigre’s final struggle is a mirror to the same internal lifelong war. Be it its genesis, manifestation, and hopeful and eventual exodus. An end that calls to me ever so often as a siren in the night, and with which I dance in growing intimacy in each passing year. 

And so, time passes, and momentum seems to build. One more loving sacrifice. One more maybe.