There's a point where push comes to shove, pain becomes the weak, aloneness beckons the selfish, over-fullness begs the spill. A point on a map. Charted in coal and charred on your soul. No water, no sponge, no washing, no brushing. Away from integrity. This point is a membrane breaking and a part of you seeping through. It's the tip of the dart as it pushes through your skull and splits you in half. It's the point of intersection between you and your shadow's gaze, each one reflecting upon the other, none seeing eye to eye. This point, in Another's eye, is merely Art.
There's also a point when you make endless ends meet, opposites coincide, male and female conjunct. When you make struggle bare fruit, skill bare mastery, mystery, majesty. It's the point of clutching the dagger and pushing it through the back of your shadow, letting it bleed, igniting the fire, melding the glittering shards, and gifting the whole to another. To The Other. It's the point where you were your Priest and are now Artifex to Another.
