The seamless detonator

Triggers are a tricky experience because they turn the past that we want to leave behind into the present. Not everybody who is being triggered knows this is what is happening to them at the moment, and to become aware of what triggers us shadow work is key. But also another fundamental step in healing the original memory that activates the triggers is transmutation.

It's not enough to be able to look and accept our past, we need to dare to be brutally honest about the internal narratives crystallized from the experience and resignify what no longer serves us.

I'll talk more about triggers in the future but for now, I've made a poem that might express on a more personal note the sensible aspect of the healing process and not only the intellectual one.

It is my intention that sharing this intimate moment-made art can help you heal too.

Triggers

(2022)

You trigger me a lot,

You trigger me slowly,

You trigger me impassionately,

indifferently and mouldy.

Is this the path of awakening?

Is this the path of loss?

Is this the path to finally

learning to let go?

Must pain always be the teacher?

Must pain be my only muse?

Are the Gods satisfied now?

Are they finally amused?

On the edge of your behaviour

There's always a question mark,

and notes of my desire

keep holding for an arc.

Recurring unsettling omens

inundate my feelings.

Unpretentious actions

with pretentious meanings.

Confused by my wishful thinking

and my magick on a leap.

My wonder is what makes me wonder,

and attaches my heart to my heap.

And I find that esoteric minds

Make the worst love melodies.

Always holding on to the potential

Of their made-up memories.

And I find that abandonment

Is the common shadow

Of the enacted detachment

And the pride we swallow.

And I find that poker

is really just a game.

because those who truly care,

don't mind showing you their tell.

And I understand that triggers

as thrilling as they might be,

are not paving the way to connection,

but bringing me to my knee.

And I breathe a silent sorrow,

for the death of the unborn.

And transmute this ghost phlogiston

in a love I find my own.

Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash