Guardian
By Jason Fresh
Transition is on me. The fires that burned, burned gracefully upon the October night are within me now. Something happened I suppose. Something majestic, a majestic fire striking the chords of the new album, make sense of all the tiresome poses I’ve held, all the messes I’ve made, my dirty laundry now handed to the Fire Maid. Angerbliss is moving now. I am becoming the guardian of the Fold in the Fabric of Night. I am becoming the charming prince of my destiny, watching time dance before me and songs ring out from the trees. Yes, the object of art is to create but creating means destroying – that is what I have done here, at the apex of the peak, at the point of a star where the earth and the heavens meet. I stand here. I live here. I breathe with the Haole. I become the fire. All that ever was, all the ever will be is right here. Joyce Meyers, the Christian lady that my grandmother gives money to, she is talking some shit about her spirit – trusting God when you don’t understand him. I don’t trust anyone I don’t understand. I feel the fires of hell raging up through my veins. I feel the power of mystery, the power of not knowing. I feel the providence of the stars, the heavens crashing down upon me. I am aware like Arjuna, I am simple like Mahatma Gandhi, and I am wealthy like J.P. Morgan. Transition is on me. Transition is me. I care what you think – just don’t tell me.
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