Do you know what stage of the moon your period usually reaches? The moon (Earth's natural satellite) has phases, everyone knows.The phases of the moon influence the waters of the planet, plants, animals and establish cycles of (approximately) 28 days, relating to the female menstrual cycle. So, like the moon, every woman has phases and that's why the menstrual cycle is also known as the the internal moon.
The perception of the internal phases of the moon is a way to organize, get to know and connect with your own cycle. Thus, by observing and investigating how you feel physically and emotionally at each stage (menstrual, pre-ovulatory, ovulatory and pre-menstrual), you transform a biological mechanism (menstrual cycle) into a tool for self-knowledge.
By following the phases of the external moon, you can relate them to your menstrual cycle, and notice possible changes in mood, physical, emotional disposition, etc. That is, when you organize yourself by a lunar calendar, you make a profound study of yourself.
For example: if you menstruate on the new moon, you should feel more reclusive and introspective (with the face of few friends) during this period. Once you know this, you can plan and prepare a time for yourself (tpm) when the new moon is coming and consequently, you will better understand this period.
Nature is cyclical and moves through contractions and expansions. So are the cycles of the moon, seasons, tides, etc. Through this movement, women perceive the great life-death-life cycle that permeates our existence: birth, growth, reproduction, transformation, death ...
Women carry this cyclicality of contraction and expansion through the menstrual cycle. They incorporate the archetypes of each phase of nature's cycles into our psyche, that is, they live as a reflection of nature. During their cycle, the body, mood, disposition, sensations and abilities, forms of perception and expression are changed ...
When menstruating they are contracting, collected and shrouded in shadows ... it is the instinct of the body, the mind, nature ... When menstruating they are a new moon, which has no shine. When menstruating they are winter and like trees, they lose their leaves ...
In this way, female archetypes related to the lunar phases were built. That is, archetypes that translate / illustrate the female psyche in each of the lunar phases. In total, they have 8 phases / archetypes, however, I advise everyone who is starting the studies of the sacred, to start understanding 4 of them, which are: the maiden, the mother, the witch and the old woman (drags aside).
•• With each cycle, they live these 4 archetypes, in their own way, of course. Having knowledge of them and knowing how to identify them in you is an incredible tool to get to know and understand yourself better and, consequently, to have a healthier relationship with your cycle and with yourself.
Poetry exclaims, sings the song that there is, that falls, that does not forget, that perishes, that waits, that silences me, that drowns, that gives me hands, that kisses my eyes.
Poetry looks at me there in the blue mountains, hits me twice on the chest, blesses me. Poetry rips the lace on my windows, untie my veins; makes me savanna, fight.
I ask your lips for incense, forgiveness, chrysalis, chrysanthemums, nails, clemency and lead auroras. On your lips, without a pulse, with winters without a vase, I bathe in petals; I braid my spirits, I spread them in the air.
In your hands, I will get rid of the cry of the crows that knock on my unlit door. In your hands, I will read the lap of margaritas; tulips will sprout from my hair, there will be no abyss.
In your mouth my ribs will stop being crossed, They will become a tree and my veins, branches in the sun. And if my chest beats again, I know it will, of course it will! The sparrows will shut their mouths forever.
They will be silent, they will withdraw their wings from art and Perseid will rain on my body, I will be a stem. They will be silent, gold will be reflected in my iris, I will not flee; my essence will flutter and in my eyes I will see red flowers.
We weren't like a typical love story. Yet we were like, we were I don't know if out of habit or for that tremendous addiction to try us, to feel us, to touch us and to destroy all senses and heartbeats. We were like street animals, that after giving them a little attention, some food and lots of love, they no longer want to easily get away from you.
We weren't jealous for each other, there were not hundreds of messages in the chat, nor did we see each other every day. But for every call or audio that we sent to WhatsApp, the desire to see each other fell short among so many words that we said on a cell phone.
We weren't typical lovers, but the force of attraction that had between the two resembled the physical law of universal gravitation formulated and established by Newton, where two opposing masses will always have a common point where they will always match, our arms.
We were another, almost unique and unrepeatable full of tenderness and unbridled madness that always found us wanting not to finish the game that one day we had unintentionally started.
I don't know who of the two was more crazy, if she for looking at me or me for making her feel like it was the most perverse, sensual and sassy poetry that my whole being contemplated in her persona every time I ran naked through the dining room, kitchen and the bathroom.
We weren't like a typical love story. She was a dream and I was the dreamer. She was the magic and I was the magician. She was the moon orbiting my earth. She was the andromeda galaxy, slowly approaching my milky way. She was a little red riding hood and I was her fierce wolf lying to everyone that we could never be together.
We were more hugs, kisses and uncontrolled love. We were two quiet angels in the distance and two restless devils in the closeness. We were our own story ...
I need to kiss you so badly, One of those kisses where I am pressing against you as much as possible and my hands are in your hair and moving down your back clutching to you in any way I can, kissing you as deeply as possible and thinking you are mine, mine, mine.
I wriggle through tears every time I see my friends and a part of me cry. And commit suicide. Or survive another failed suicide attempt. for the only reason that they can't look like the cis people. That they can't say they are male or female. That transition is a word they refer to in a astronomically different way than you use. That they don't feel that they belong-- to their body and to the society. That they are something and not someone. My body may be of a man. But my soul is a woman. And I can't be anything else. I think of Lily Elbe. Born a man called Eignar Wegener. I think how she was always trapped in a man's body. How she gagged in a suit all her life as a man. And her suppressed only desire to be a mother. How she died in trying to become one. I am effiminate and I can't pretend any more. I am not a man. I am a woman and all of you thinking that I'm not doesn't mean anything to me now. You tell me that I am acting strange and that therapy will cure me. What will you cure me of? I am who I am. And it's not a disease. I like to wear corsets. I can't wear a tie anymore, to please you. To become a part of your parties. To be what I am is above what I look like and what you want me to be. I am. Just me. Not a moon. Not a sun. Just millions of meteors falling together and burning ablaze.
I am a bird fluttering in the sky Suffocating in open air This sky a cage for me An untransferable cage Immutable cage Widely loved, beautiful cage A bird always meant to fly A bird always adorns the sky Yet I gag Lightning ripping my soul Demented, squealing, writhing I fly with my feathers sore The water shining catches my eyes A fish I am escapes my sighs Laughable, devilish, ridiculous My thoughts against the will of nature Hunted by other birds Pecked till I bled and died The world was kind, the world had lied. -- I a Trans woman
I was 7 When my grandmother died, I saw some people taking her to graveyard, I asked them to come along, They told me I can't come As graveyard is everything I am scared of And I can't bear it. I thought graveyard is like the look Of my mother when My father hits him.
I was 14, When I saw my neighbour's skin full of scars, I then thought graveyard is like the skin Of my neighbour Who everyday gets raped By her husband.
I was 17, When I saw my friend in grief Cuz of her shattering dreams, I then thought graveyard is like the dreams Of my friend That are shattered by her own parents For whom their daughter's marriage at young age Is important than their daughter's dreams.
I was 25, When I saw a kid's soul tearing apart Over his poverty I thought the graveyard is like that kid's soul That wants to attend the school and live like other children, that wants to fly and touch vast sky of dreams but The burden of feeding his family has caged it.
I was 32, When I saw an old couple's eyes filled with tears, For oppressions done by their kids on them. I thought the graveyard is like their wrinkled eyes That are moist cuz of getting kicked out Of house by their own kids for whom they have survived a life full of sacrifices.
I was 36, I looked at my womb in the mirror, From where I heard screams of my unborn child. I thought the graveyard is like my womb From where my unborn child screams for her father whom I left For trying to kill my child Cuz he didn't wanted a daughter.
I was 37, I looked at my child's dead body, I was numb at the death of the only light in my life. I was terrified cuz this time I was not thinking of what a graveyard is like, this time I was visiting a one. I buried my child and sat beside her tombstone. It was peaceful there. It has nothing to be afraid of, unlike the outside world. I realised that the real graveyard is outside of this graveyard. A graveyard is that world I live in, Where humanity is dead and Just the sculptures made of bone, flesh and skin wanders.
But, I am proud of you That you came this much far!
I am proud of you, Cuz even when u had thousands of doubts in mind! You kept walking on the mysterious path leading contentment!
I am proud of you! Cuz, you didn't feel inferior When they tried to bully you!
I am proud of you Cuz, you never let your self-esteem suffer!
I am proud of you Cuz, you're still working on What you want to be!
And, I am going to be proud of you, When you'll get there...
PS: I'm like an aesthetic rainbow, which was just sun's white light nothing else before... But then someone came in my life like the raindrop, and made me split into 7 dazzling colours! Now, i know, I can do this!
I will still read you, even if someday I disappear into "user not found" , I'll still read you even if you disappear into "user changed name" , I'll still read you, even if they tell me "user disappeared into nothing" , for I can't let go of the thread stitching my metaphors into existence. My words still need to be drenched in the rain of our "time together" to create the ripples of ink, flooding my blank pages with our colors.
I'll return, even if someday you title your poems "don't come back", "I don't want you", for I know at the end of that narration of our long lost world, will still be a hopeless entity, smiling at me, awaiting my lips to spell those letters into your name.
You may write about her, or a world in which I exist no more, but I know, I'll live still within those incomplete drafts and unposted pieces, that carry the burden of sustaining a world that's crumbling since forever, without even letting out a sigh.
Stories I write now, have a different copyright for I left my name in the wardrobe of rainbows adoring our skies, with all colors dried up inside the tiny bottles of ink we painted our letters together with. I can't take them back now, so I write only in blue and blacks, hues that seem to be lent easily, everywhere I extend my empty hand.
It's been a long time, but I still remember you. They say time heals wounds, but you weren't a wound to begin with, maybe that's why my heart can't seem to heal of you. Now, I'm writing of love again, with vestiges of quills, the feathers of which have withered away, by the winds of time.
Maybe we'll meet again someday, in some wasted canvas where we spill our old bottles of ink, unknown to each other's faded rainbows inside, covered now with hues anew, to blend in with the colors of the world. Till then, I'll keep writing and reading you, hoping maybe you'll do the same.
August and raindrops Street no -09 City - Love and happiness PIN Code - 704307
August 31, 2020
The ravishing megalopolis Lane no - 143 PIN Code - 340703
Dear megalopolis, These august verses will never wake you up. The rants of my syllables will never rustle in your ears dear. You'll miss my raindrops, dark skies and soundless clouds. You'll miss my warmth and love.
The red and blue lights of your street and the existence of streetlight in quiet somber darkness, big bungalows and tiny slums, satisfied cottages and embittered resorts, broken hearts and vile souls, shattered dreams and naked strengths; I'll miss everything darlin'. Crowded streets are still smiling after seeing the passengers of August but the ultimate station is arriving now. Even though you're not mine but I felt you in my every breath, in my every drop of rain and inside my soul too. Keep shining mate. I love you and I will love you forever.
Ô raindrop, finish the last coffee quickly and as soon as possible. The barista will never serve us coffee inside this little coffe cafe with you, my beloved raindrop. I want you forever but the time will not allow me darling. Remember me with your pretty drops. When you will unlatch your eyes in september, those tints of soundless melodies rant near your left ear but I'll not be with you standing with your favourite gladioli. And I love you forever, again and forever.
O John Keats ! Can I borrow some metaphors from your sonnets of king Stephen only for today ? Kiss my syllables and I'll turn them into snowflakes and constellation of love and happiness for my beloved till the next August.
Now, I'm feeling like a pariah and after some hours, the bewildering September will be the another potentate and I'm canoodling your paradise with the plethora of kisses for the very last time. Bid me farewell forever for the year. But I'll be back darling for you and for your love. Spread more happiness than corona. My rotten fleshes can't exhale these melodies now and I'll be back with the mellifluous balladries of a new year. Till then I want to get lost inside the woodland of silken lettuces.
(Many August persons are here and this post is for you all and this is last August poem for the year because the dark September is coming here. Keep believing souls. August will be back for sure because August loves you)