sorceress violet, 50 ml ink reference: #XDR | [xaymara díaz]

xaymara díaz

My "aesthetic" is the beautifully horrifying: The All Consuming Sorceress and Empress that watches you from her omnipotence and determines your destruction, or a bubbling cauldron, or a slivering spell all within the same flick of a thought. 

The deeper I sink into this pool of NetherLife, I find I can only behold this world with her eyes. It is not enough to paint with lithe colors and fine design. It is not enough to be grotesque for pure repulsion. That may never cover the entire extent of our existence, and it is only in symphony of destruction that we are most alive. It is only when our flesh meets between lands of wonder and perfection and then tangles at the very edges of its corruption that we can be honest with ourselves. It is only then where we can mire and ponder upon our existence in its most brutal honesty, and yet also dare not take an eye too high and dignified of it, or carve too simplistic and animalistic an image. 

It is to glance at the world and determine that only a river drawn from your raw blood can ever be true to what you write and see and live. It is to truly unhinge one’s beast and yet direct it with your voice as its sole command in its wily throes, no matter how great its claws.  

It is to recognize that your mental case was never meant to be a cage, and yet recognize it may be filled with vipers you’ve allowed to nest. Yet for as much as you may quiver, it is to cleave control of your own vices until they paint only your utmost desires. 

It is never to claim purity.

It is never to claim sole aggression. 

Nothing can ever be as simple as that, and you are a fool to think otherwise- to write otherwise of the hostile and glorious place our minds and hearts can be. 

It is to uncover the vicious desire to conquer, to lust, to crave and reave.

To unveil the sound of your own damnation, and yet not be fell to its echo. 

To write only with the utmost lunacy and obsession for perfection, and treasuring every precious image- feeling every heartbeat that drummed through your fingertips upon it. 

It is to be unbound by literacy or linguistic design, and yet write solely with your lifeblood’s most profound eloquence. 

It is to cling to every word and every adjective as though if your voice would falter, you would be lost to an abyss. For to write every inch of this ink is also profound punishment- to be wracked with endless knives in your daily conscience, and yet silence them all ever so often by nature’s own call. 

To give life to these ragged breaths in text, you must have felt them and imagined them at least a thousand times. 

It is to feel the entirety of the weight of absolute darkness when you’re at the mercy of Fortune’s own cards, and yet dare call forward in your head the beauty of a rose petal’s lines, the glow of the Moon, the shiver on your spine as you walk fine strings of danger, as well as the exact moment where your heartstrings clenched painfully in tears, or the world sunk in and tore open your skin. 

It is to love and hate the madness that dances above and around your mind, and sometimes sets flames to the entirety of your spirit and voice within. 

It is to accept that though pained you are; you would be further damned without feeling everything oh so bloodily intensely.

It is to curse a thousand times in multicultural guttural ramblings

Cazzo figglio di puttana, 

          va te faire foutre, 

                  váyase al carajo & fick dich.

Yet never forget for a second that this is life. 

It is also to weave together every intensity in between- to never, ever forget the varied shades and tints that lay under your skin and expose them on a whim. 

To turn around every terror with mocking grace, and embody the power you have forsaken for a victim’s route. 

To be the tragic hero and yet also the joker from whose lips this tale slips. 

For martyrdom can never do,

It is a lie that kingdoms are led easily by heroes. 

You must embody every face you’ve ever felt, and dare upon that which is not frequently spoken.
Yet never forget for a second that life is not merely ambiguity. For there are voices which ring true, and those who merely repeat. 

Certainly there are those for whom we must fight, and war is found in all- and in all there is war, but we must never ignore our own flourishing/falling queendoms. 

It is only in recognizing this wild, and intricate animosity followed closely by grace and potency that we can construct an internal world-

And with it multiplied a thousand times may we sing oh so well. 

For this in itself is paradise and utopic demise- since to write as thee may we be externally exiled, since outliers often find discomfort in their own dark-

But in possessing our own voice may we reign higher-

To retake the corporeal remnant of our instinct and ability, in bleeding only the intricately terrifying, and gloriously damned.  

To reap our soul in writing, observe from Another, and fluctuate from atop and within the cusp of dusk, as is the call of this manifesto and humanity’s true design. 

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