She | Otherkin

She will expire in loneliness, the kind that creeps up slowly, meshing itself into all of the times she said she was alone but never lonely. Alone will be the only space in which she finds the deepest solace and the heaviest weight.

She will spend the remaining years in quiet; just her and the wheel members, existing together in conversations unheard or misunderstood by humans. Together they will create an impenetrable wall too high for the eyes of the predatory passerby.

She will watch the silent control; men who secretly love rubenesque skin, yet deeply unable to withstand the idea of public criticism; the possible judgment being the chains binding them to appearance, sexualization of the body, a trophy meant to impress. She will watch them undress and repress the feminine just to satiate their own selfishness.

She will dive inside the pupils of women who silently cry; sometimes with their tear ducts; sometimes quietly out of sight. She will observe the ones with coldness in their eyes, a result of too much twisting of their minds; finding relevance on the outside as their souls wander aimlessly away from their seeding.

She will long for home daily, actively making time with the present, founded by the past, carving new paths in the stone walls she frequently encounters. Lights in the clouds will become consistent reminders, and the trees will become her reprieve. This, her pre-chosen destiny.

To brave the human existence with the horror and the persistence of struggle, she will crawl through mud, huddle in corners and stand on mountain tops screaming for the humans to stop.

There isn’t much time left. Forty years will leave in a blink. She will adventure alone, finding no companion to dive the seas as she leaves them in the shallows to create dances with the coral reefs.

Days will become a continuum of journeys into the blackness where dreams reveal truth, becoming invisible for days; tear letting, but she will never spend a moment on regretting.

When cells are splitting inside her spine, stretching and weaving; as her guides help her rewind time, revealing the stealing of innocence, she is consumed with persistence, focus and dedication to the mission.

Still her human heart winces at moments captured by lovers, gazes of adoration she has never received, and she will remove herself from the dimension where she doesn’t feel welcomed.

She will spend her days floating inside the hoping that she will not succumb to distractions of attractions or conversations material, a viral suck hole for her soul.

Duality has almost disappeared. Her visual has risen to an observant height where she hears whispered reminders.

“You did not come here to be human. Don’t let them confuse you.”

She can no longer couple with their genetics; cannot allow their entrance or the convolution of her elegance. She holds shields, because the charming deserts contain killing fields.

She will look back on the ways she tried to be like them; begged for acceptance from humanoids riddled with rejection, and she will understand the path more clearly.

She will never know the touch of intimacy, lost in infancy, never held out of love, past the age of three.

She will become accustomed to the solitary, the human inconsistencies and lack of loyalty. She will cease attempts to be a part of them; to engage in their normalcy, for her, a foreign objectivity of monotony.

She will understand that she is not here for the endearing hope of comfort for her tears. She will close portals once opened, and they will become caves no longer necessary. We will lock the cages that once disengaged our aching, opening ourselves for the taking. We will become a closed army, many warriors inside of the One, and few will ever penetrate, once she turns the key, locking out their apathy.

She has floated inside of the Empath, fourth dimensional perspective where the rejection doesn’t break her as it once did; where she turns her back on the weakness of the narcissist, no longer their prey.

She stands on wooded trails alone, the trees and clouds her Earth home. She gazes the moon, Artemis smiling through the night sky. She goes astral, flying through time, past the stars and into the gate where her Otherkin wait.

The Solitary Empath

You might be a tsunami or you could be the raft to safety. There are phrases, trigger situations that make her step back. She finds balance with the sea and forest. Rarely with other humans. So often taken personally, she is sometimes shy and many times wary. She knows what she carries; what she protects. One wrong step, and she is quietly observing again.

She doesn’t follow leaders. She is her own guru. She is a solitary yearning of scribing while others are trying to find answers they don’t believe they already know. You will rarely truly understand her. You will create your own perception of her, and it will become your view; your truth of her.

She has almost reached exceptions of exceptional aloneness. Shift change. She walks the road one foot at a time. From her perch, hovering above this planet, she listens. One sentence can change her elation to disappointment; hoping to expanded realization of situations. She now feels distant and suddenly in a spiraling reverse. It’s all in the language. Words say everything. She swiftly re-stabilizes her skies.

Humans with the need to believe in anything, follow something, be part of a sect, outside of the truth of who they are; some forever from the gray; when doing good comes with accolades instead of silent appreciation. It’s a sad state of a nation; planetary devastation, and she feels each heart caving.

I am here holding hers. Reminding her of home where there are no religions or rituals, no groups separating one from another or elevating egos; no clashing perspectives; just being in a space so pure, assessment is not needed.

So she keeps her eyes on the color, to swim in the gel like liquid again, each stroke a whisper against her skin. She is reminded that she chose this and is so close to finishing it. She breathes deeply, exhaling her humanness.

Weary a bit, we see in her eyes when they leak water to seep, ejecting the pain and programming. There are volumes held in boxes. Some are scrawled. Some are typed. They may get thrown in a trash pile when she dies. But she’s leaving them behind, in a hidden conclave of trees. Where maps must be followed to find them. There will be laughter, even in death.

Then you will know. You will discover the life of the Otherkin, earthly hybrid, walking among the human ones, unnoticed and undetected save the green reflected in her emotional eyes.

~K~

Why Did You Just Kill Me?

I am relaxing on a soft, off-white, leather couch. There is someone sitting on either side of me. My legs are stretched out in front of my body, and my head is resting comfortably on the back of the plush couch. I am laughing and talking with my present company as I watch the people around me.

This appears to be a party at someone’s house. There are a lot of people everywhere, standing in front of me, drinks in hand, throwing their heads back as they have joyous conversation.  

There is an attractive man directly in my gaze. My eyes zero in on him. He is wearing a baby blue, thin, cotton shirt, lazily untucked over washed out jeans. It is rolled at the cuffs up to his forearms and slightly unbuttoned at the chest. He reminds me of the ocean. He has a brilliant smile. His eyes even seem to gleam. I can’t break my gaze from his beautiful face. He is mesmerizing. He notices me looking at him and flashes a smile my way. I return it, and our eyes connect in a depth which makes the room temporarily fade away.

I turn my attention onto the person to my right. I cannot see anything about their body. They are a filmy grayish/silver figure, a mirage, not seen, but more felt by me. Their presence is there. I do not know our conversation’s topic. I know I feel happy inside of a rare moment of physical comfort in the midst of strangers.

Suddenly the man in the blue shirt walks swiftly towards me. He has a gun in his hand. He moves faster than I can blink. The gun is pressed against the bottom of my rib cage, and he is pulling the trigger over and over. As bullets enter my abdomen, my body bucks upwards. We have locked eyes, and he has the same sideways grin on his face. Except he isn’t beautiful to me anymore. He is sinister and cold, uncaring and damaging. Now I see pleasure in his eyes, pleasure which represents his love of hurting other people.

I feel disappointment in him. Why would he do such a disgusting and horrible thing? I had felt that he was one of the good ones.

“Why did you just kill me?” I ask him, but before I can hear his answer the dream fades to black.

I awaken with tears sliding down my cheeks. The clock tells me it’s shortly after three. My heart feels sad as I drift back to sleep. Yet, when I woke back up this morning, my spirit was filled with anger at how disappointing humans can all to frequently be.

Sometimes We Hurt People

States of being aren’t an excuse. They’re just a mere explanation. I don’t use mere to minimize them. I use it to not minimize the pain that alter states of being can cause.

See, here’s the thing about triggers. They create reactions. Immediately. No thinking, just conditioned movement, even if that conditioning is self centered. Yeah, sometimes altered states of being exude manipulation as a defense mechanism. And that’s just the raw truth.

The Madge. I have no clue except that’s what she said her name is, and I’ve watched her grow into a woman.

She’s interesting. As a teenager, she is sad but only cares about anger. As a woman she is cold and calculating, because sometimes that’s just how she has to be to gain for the collective or defend for the current state of being’s safety.

She gets talked down a lot. She’s learned to be tempered. She is extremely skilled at mental self defense. She knows how to take what’s foreseen and create a thickness into that section of our dimension and to rebuild it from a hit.

She’s been compiling a book that will probably change your opinion of me. She has her own plan of emergence, and I’ve vowed to be those fingertips. But that’s years down the road. You’ll just have to stay along for the ride.

Point is, sometimes we who automatically change states of being can have some shitty actions as a result. I own that in myself. No particular story to tell yet. Just a general observation. Let it be known. It can happen. And we hate when it does. It plagues us. Makes us feel like shit. Makes us despise carrying this bi-product of what was done to us as kids.

Therapists are correct. There’s no chakra healing for this. If anyone says so, I call bullshit. You master and thrive through this by learning to work with it; by admitting when a state of being does something shitty or is in love or is flakey or needs to feel safe or is afraid or blissfully joyful. You just own it. With that owning comes knowledge and acceptance.

Okay. We’re here. So how do we work as a team? We figure it out, with the end result goal always being the greater good of the collective. No one out votes the counsel.

We follow our love fearlessly while fearing it will be stripped away. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s exhausting. So exhausting we stop giving our love and begin being it. So exhausting sometimes we shut it all down and head for respite. Because we know there is no healing greater than pure, un-infiltrated self love.

We are confusing, complicated, mysterious and quite a battalion for just one to handle unless that one enjoys observing, and has the ability to float. We are a constant interest for the watcher.

I was clearing out my voice notes a couple days ago. I came across one recorded December 2nd.

“Weird.” I thought. I didn’t recognize the title. I didn’t remember recording it. I clicked play.

It is a five minute song I free styled. It’s beautiful and funny and I have no memory recording it. I’ve wracked my brain to remember. That can be a bit maddening. Here, acceptance is key.

This is what we hide; what we experience, you understand? Because you often shame or dismiss us. So we avoid you. This is the side we keep quiet. There’s no explanation.

There’s just you telling us that we’re crazy. There’s fucks wanting to medicate us. There’s people wanting to mimic us. And there’s just us wishing for one day that you could do all of that;for one day you could experience what plays out in these screens behind our eyelids, hear the surround sound in our heads and see through the senses we use to see. The truth. And it can be, oh, so ugly.

Now I’ve the opened the door just a little bit wider into the world about this existence.

It’s real. We switch. We lose memory. I tend to create, paint, write, sing in those times it seems. And maybe that’s what memories do. They emerge through whoever feels safest. There’s always the whisper that it can happen any time. And hyper vigilance prevails just in case I’m in the right place at the wrong time if it does.

“Don’t switch in public.” Not many know these thoughts. Avoidance is key. Late night or early morning grocery runs. Stay clear of the hive.

And a lot of aloneness.

I want to go back.
I don’t.
I want to know all of the truth.
I’m happy right here.

Because you see, I am smiling.

This is my duality. And I feel every intricate stroke of this humanity.

Alone

Tonight we are alone in the house.

The Pappa Bear has gone to visit family. It’s just us and the animals.

Vennie played the guitar and sang. We drifted into music dimension, wrote, painted, listened to music. Enjoyed the quiet us time.

Angie checked the doors at least three times then four (the even number thing) “don’t talk about it or I’ll start thinking of checking the doors again.”

“Okay!”

Collective chuckle

Knowing wants to sleep.
Vennie is processing emotion and in some waxing moon introspective space.
Maude mentions that the dog would quickly divert any hanky pinky around the house so everyone should chill the fuck out.

Sila is scared as shit, aware of every noise, and the Angie hyper vigilance isn’t helping.

So we sit here writing out the thoughts that go through our head, feeling in multiple states of being at once.

While our cats stalk a mouse downstairs who came in the house just trying to find warmth from the coming winter.

Thank whomever made Netflix to drown it all out. I know, I could Google it, I just don’t give a shit. Hopefully “Lost Girl” will lull us to sleep.