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I think there’s two different types of ego death: spiritual death and spiritual splendor; both of these are submission to silence. I had experienced spiritual death many times before, becoming absolutely desolate and losing all the identity to my consciousness. I’ve experienced a state of spiritual splendor at least once, which is the loss of the ego to be in communion with God, to be in bliss on earth.

Having experienced spiritual splendor, spiritual death is just as important, in a transitory state, to shut out the oppression of life and submit to the silent condition of being. It’s a state of sleeping while awake, dreaming without concept and only picking up the essence of things, going along the stream of consciousness.

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Gustave Boulanger (detail)

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A Pensive Moment (1886 - detail)

Jules Joseph Lefebvre

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Moonlit forest scene (1878) Louis Étienne Timmermans

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The insanity of this keeping amazing me; the human body is a storyteller — it tells the world how long one has lived, the climates one’s ancestors have lived in for thousands of years, features adapted in certain climates coming together, the love stories of one’s ancestors, one’s personality and how a person experiences themselves and the world, the body is decorated to one’s liking and expresses something deeper within.

To physically exist, in a human body, with all the complex processes that entails, and people look at another and decide whether to dismiss them or accept them based on the appearance of the body…that’s insane to me.

War is waged on women by society changing its preference over one body feature to another, and this is intentional. This is a time in history where there are multiple beauty standards, or desirable types of women, but women are still made to feel insecure, because the grass is always greener on the other side.

I just think that it’s crazy people can tell another person they have a bad body, and grade how valuable we are based on our physical being, as if the human body exists as a product for other people. My body is me, it represents my existence and the affects of my environment and aging, as well as telling thousands of years of its genetic history. This is amazing, and yet we degrade the human body as if there were this grand merit to doing so.

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War is waged on women by society changing its preference over one body feature to another, and this is intentional. This is a time in history where there are multiple beauty standards, or desirable types of women, but women are still made to feel insecure, because the grass is always greener on the other side.

I just think that it’s crazy people can tell another person they have a bad body, and grade how valuable we are based on our physical being, as if the human body exists as a product for other people. My body is me, it represents my existence and the affects of my environment and aging, as well as telling thousands of years of its genetic history. This is amazing, and yet we degrade the human body as if there were this grand merit to doing so.

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One way to find out how your partner actually feels about you is to know what he thinks of you wearing make-up.

What does it say about a man who prefers his woman to cover her face? Who tells his woman make-up would make her more beautiful? Who would rather see paint than his woman’s natural face?

When someone actually loves you, that delight in seeing your natural appearance, regardless if your features are socially attractive or not, because your bare state is you. Your lover would delight in seeing you as you are, because they love you.

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I. I wonder how long you’ll be in that house with your mother. My dear, have you considered what you’ll do when she passes, and your sisters move away? Perhaps you’ll think of me at some point, and your silent departure from my life when my mother passed. I adored you and think of you often. I would have been your friend forever, and I can’t understand why I became the target of your moods, and why you never accepted me.

II. You took me in to deceive me, I know your type. Your rawness is an act, you’re playing your character, you know, to lure one like me in. You’re a pitiable creature, and you know that. At the core of your manipulative innocence, you’re still searching for home, who will call your name as the one who gave it, who will let you lay your head on her lap so you can finally rest. The woman you seek turned you away, and you turned me. It breaks my heart still to think of you wandering in the open at night, steeped in the dreamy darkness of your inner reality. This is indeed all a play, you’re sleeping, my love. Keep on dreaming.

III. I can’t comprehend us, and what is now. I opened my arms to you and indeed love you. What has taken us away from each other, what keeps us every day? We can bring up dreams, but we will always turn and rejoin reality. You were apprehensive, and tragedy brewed inside you, because you never fully embraced this, you never bought that plane ticket, and I can’t entirely blame you. I don’t know how I should continue living in you, I want to restore the ground and embrace once again, just like nothing had happened. For what are you blaming me? The periods of silence were yours, and you’ll never accept this.

IV. 1001 Nights (and other fairy tales). I will listen to your stories and keep the light forever. I have this power, the intellect becomes a thief even when you turned from me, and gave the warmth of your past words to my spirit and heart.

V. It may be harsh, and I feel remorse. I did like you a lot, you meant something to me. I still remember the tears in your eyes and you told me about your husband. I hope you are well. Sometimes, I’d rather accept my own silence, I hope you can understand. I’m sorry.

VI. I think I saw you on the train today. I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been a few years. Why are you brooding, you look exhausted and guarded. Do you still remember God loves you dearly? Does He still talk to you? What has happened here? I remember your greased, long hair, the jeans you wore every day, your innocent, dark eyes. It seems the past few years have not been kind.

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©Nannimensch/Jurljin

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A study of roses

Luigi Rossi