We each have to find what our meditating sounds, feels, flies like.
It has to have nothing to do with anyone else but the cells that came together to cobble up your soul.
After you find it, figure it out… sharing it then is a different thing.
There’s no ask in it.
No request.
For the ‘other’ to get it, to love it.
To love you.
The Other “getting it” has to be gravy or you’re fucking it up.
The universe is giving it to you.
To love. To figure out your communion with it, why you preternaturally requested that it be embroidered onto your path.
The rest of us that are supposed to get anything from it after the fact get the best vapors from it when it’s correctly distilled and sweating outta you.
Don’t cheat us out of the highest grade spirit of you that’s meant to intoxicate Us…by being cheap and misanthropic towards yourself in the fermentation process. Don’t cheapen your distillation with self-hatred. We’re gonna taste that inner burn.
You can’t fuck people with no self Love &then walk away feeling good about yourself. No matter what this world says to the contrary. Listen to your self-talk after the fact. It’ll tell you every thing you really need to know about what that exchange is truly doing to you.
(Sexually, or Otherwise)
…who shot the cat style?
[I fucking Love Florence Welch. By the way. That’s the red-headed defiance flooding my veins from my Grandma’s dad, embodied in her roar- fuck, maaan ]