Reuniting with my twin flame – Rediscovering Painting

And so we were back in Lausanne, without any news from my twin

But I felt more determined than ever, and wrote her every single day that passed

I started by expressing her all my roaring anger at her acts

I knew it was useless to contain any further my rage, and I understood this anger wasn’t only mine but also hers

She was still handicapped of her emotions, repressing them, or just not knowing how to fully embrace and express them yet

So I still felt them and I needed to share them with her so she’d feel them too

I told her of my anger, her anger, at her fearful behavior, at the stupidity of her friends, at the life choices she was doing

And each time I wrote her my anger I felt a whirlwind of energy in my heart moving across my body

I knew that even if she didn’t read me she’d feel it too, and I knew, I felt, she was acting on it and making drastic changes in her life

I also wrote her in tenderness when the anger was gone, but always underneath was another layer of anger

And a couple of nights after my return from the Netherlands I had a dream

She was looking at a painting I had done, and she was telling me it was the right direction, that I needed to fill in all the white and complete the puzzle

It had been months I barely painted because I always was dissatisfied with my paintings

but the next day I tried painting again and ended up with Rainbow

Rainbow

For the first time since ages I was taking pleasure again in mixing colors, and I felt quite free while painting, and I dared to send it to my twin, and to Chantal and her twin as well, who are quite the painters

I surmised there was a meaning to my painting, and that it was deeply related to whom I was

I had never understood that relation before, never understood painting could show me so precious things about myself

And I wrote her in tenderness after that

The next day I understood more clearly I was in a battle against myself, I needed to learn mastering my mind, as my twin had already hinted to me several months ago telling me a great novella could be born from this tentative of controlling one’s mind

She had spoken about it as a scenario for a novel, and not as something we were undergoing, probably she herself didn’t fully understand it at the time

And I called my poem Mind control

It is a time of struggle and strife

A time of inner civil conflict

Where my will, my consciousness, my wisdom

Battles against my sluggishness and my instincts, my doubts and my fears

Fears take different shapes, different colors

Doubts are sneaky worms that have infiltrated every part of my mind

Making me question and question every decision I take, every resolution I reach

They are everywhere and weigh in my stomach and in my chest

They blur what is clear, they spoil what is true, they take me away from the present moment

They are a vermin to hunt and exterminate without pity

For years I tolerated them, not knowing strongly enough the true from the untrue

But now I know, I know, and I have decided to put an end to them

All kinds of fears I try to welcome, to welcome the situation and chase the sensation

To trust the emptiness and the dogs and the future and the dull rules of the world

To close my eyes and know that the fumes of lies around will promptly disappear

That at the end I will be unharmed and stronger, still stronger

I want to tear down, to dissolve, this knot I feel in my throat

I want all sort of held emotions to burst out uncontrolled

To reestablish the communication between my heart, my throat and my mouth

To free the spoken and the written word

I want the black hole at the back of my head to burst open

And liberate all its content and digest all its toxins and its heavy metals

And once it will be gone I want rainforests and marshes and gardens to grow in its place

I want a healing warmth to flow through my back and my spine and dissolve the knots there too

I want to be able to enjoy a night of rest without being tormented by fears of the past

I want to trust you blindly and to feel a tender love for you at all time

That is why I have started this war against unwanted parts of myself

This conflict that has been ongoing for months but that I now recognize as one truly

Not a war with you as I sometimes believed, but a war with spoiled parts of my own self

This poem lacks poetry, its sentences are heavy and monotonous like cannon firing

Like heavy chains with which to enchain doubts before throwing them to the sea, before burning them in a purifying pyre

And to reestablish truth and love as the only uncontested ruler, the only light to illuminate body and mind and soul

After that I continued writing her every day, not always able to live by these resolutions I had taken, but coming closer than I had in the past

I told her she needed to pardon herself and to let go of anger, as I sensed she was like a child angry for the first time and sticking to that feeling

And I told her she needed to start showing her true face to the world, the writress, the dreamer, the twin flame

not this common fearful person her friends thought she was, not this unemotional captain she behaved as

I wanted also to be avenged in a way of what she had done to us, and I cursed her, praying that one day all her friends would turn against her to see how it felt to be cold and alone and rejected

I could already see the positive consequences of our trip to the Netherlands, I had stopped hazing during the day, I had stopped feeling her boredom in architecture classes

had she stopped her studies, or simply stopped to care, I didn’t know

but I was feeling more liberated, and I could write whenever I wanted

Often this violence I shoved against her in my words was demanded I felt

only writing it down to her could unblock these trapped patterns

The next watercolor I painted was the Birth of Clouds, what I enjoyed most was giving them a title and sending them to my twin and our soul mates, Chantal and the painter

The birth of clouds

While sending my mails and paintings to her I felt a very strong energy, as though the act and courage of writing her, defying her silence, was helping her to defy all the constraints that kept her trapped in her life

I was not truly defying her, not truly hating her, only helping her in an unconventional way, and she wasn’t hating me either, even if she blocked me, she did it out of love for me, to help me find my wholeness within myself, and force each other to confront our wounds before reuniting

Each time I painted I started remembering old childhood memories, as though the act of painting was helping her to retrieve the secret passages of her memory she had lost a long time ago

And I shared with her all these memories I had forgotten, noticing I too had gray spots in the past

And the act of painting made me write of my relationship with colors, of how colors related to emotions, slowly delving deeper into these reflections

As days passed bouts of anger became less frequent and instead I had more love to show her, like in this short missive

I feel much better now I have written you and that the bags of sluggishness are almost gone. I feel elated and I want to share it with you. I take your hand and engage you in a few steps of a dance of my invention. A physical dance this time. We are now dancing on the rhythm of our souls. I smile to you. Tears in my eyes. I take the time to feel the warmth in your hand, without hurry, without the fear that our hands will soon be separated. Because they will not, they will only grow closer.

I’m cooking a rice that has become violet because of the carrot Chantal brought me. It looks like a magical potion now. It is one perhaps. Now I remember she called her carrot magical. I’m not yet the witch you are, but I’ll make a wish over it.

Now. My wish. May the wall fall and may I see your true face again. First in my mind’s eye and then with my physical eyes. A gulp of the purple liquid. It tastes good and sweet but lacks a bit of salt. See, I’m not quite the wizard yet. But I’m learning. Fast.

Ants are running madly in my kitchen and now I’m almost elated to see them. Because ants are our friends. I almost feel like running with them.

I love you. You can make a wish too, if you smile back to me. 

But the same day afterwards, I felt a wall slamming in my face

After each moment of vulnerability, the captain surges within me to take control of the situation, of your emotions. No, no, no don’t fall, he urges. And soon he drowns us under a flow of anguishes, of diversions, to forget the moment of truth.

And now that I’ve managed not to fall into this trap as I usually do, I feel again the tiredness behind my eyes. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t feel, it whispers.

The next morning for the first time Chantal’s twin wrote to the four of us including my twin, he called his mail Pinceaux and just sent us a music

The day before Chantal had gone visit him for the first time on her own, without me, as I had decided I was done chasing twin flames and waiting in front of their closed doors, and I thought that it would help her grow into her self-assurance to see him, confront him, on her own

Nothing as dramatic as our Dutch experience happened, but he showed more openly his emotions, especially his anger that he usually hides, chiding Chantal because she had provoked him by stepping over an electric wire, and making her doubts with his usual talks that all human beings are interrelated when she tried to convince him of their special bond

It’s like a mirror between them, Chantal has this need to tell him about their special bond because one part of her still doubts it, and her twin fears this special bond and he tries to drown it within the bond we share with all, with God

and often the next moment, they have a more specific talk about for instance Chantal’s tiredness the night before visiting him, and she asks him whether he has drunk that night, and he replies as a scolded child that he shouldn’t do it anymore

I suddenly remember other memories of our September encounter with the painter, before going to the Netherlands, I had forgotten to tell, during the long session we had in his atelier where I was lying down on the cold and hard floor letting the kundalini rage in my body and my left ankle

he had told us that he too had drugged himself, hiding it from his close ones, and he had stopped after breaking up for the first time with his boyfriend and seeing us again and starting to read Anam Cara

when he drugged himself it had become something systematic, and he almost needed it to create, to focus

but between May and June he had the temptation to start again

and that day a very strong thunderstorm happened and he was quite mystified by the power of this natural event and saw it as a warning from God to Stop doing it, and he threw all his drugs

it happened roughly at the same time Chantal fully accepted and integrated her past experiences with drugs and wrote him her full story, entirely open with him

as though her written words, admission, acceptance, love, had healed him

That showed us how important it is to communicate with one’s twin, to be entirely open with him or her, because once you confide with your twin your dark sides, you’re accepting them, starting to heal them

So I fly back to the beginning of October where this chapter unravels, and to the mail the painter had sent to the four of us with a YouTube song

The same day Chantal told me how the painter had told her a dream about a moon flower he had made, and suddenly the painter realized Chantal had sent him a mail telling him of a moon flower before that dream, and he placed his hand before his mouth, as he does when he’s so surprised, and laughed of his usual laugh

Laughing for him is extremely important as he uses it whenever he’s afraid, or ill at ease, which means quite often especially when we are with him

And that story Chantal told me inspired me as well, my own Moonflower, which I wrote about a long poem, and it was the first time since a very long I wrote again in so creative a fashion

 

I want to create

I want to create

I want to create

On the beats of a crazy melody

On the rhythm of a warring song

I want sentences to dance in my head

A storm of words and colors

Which takes a cathedral-like form

A place where to step in and get lost

In an immensity of pillars and stones

A stone so finely chiseled

It takes a life of its own

There’s just enough light

To highlight the dancing shadows

Along the curving walls, above the streaming waters

For there’s water running along the vaulted galleries

There’s water dripping from the ceilings

The silence inside is a silence of water on water

Of water on stone

A silence for the eyes, for the ears

For the hands and the feet

It’s cold, but not unbearably cold

Just enough to feel carried to another time, another place

The wanderer gets lost in the maze of tunnels

They seem to go deeper and deeper in the soil

But it is hard to keep track of the slopes and the directions, hard to know

Whether they are circling around themselves like a snake or a snail shell

Intent on going ever deeper in their pit

Or if they are stretching and stretching like the tentacle roots of a tree

He has no other choice but walking on the cold damp floor

His feet bathing in the little stream, his hand caressing the walls of the gallery when it narrows

Admiring and flattering the smoothness of the stone

Was it dug by craft, or is it a natural formation carved down by water

He is left to wonder

He walks on and on

He is alone, alone

But the magic of the place makes him forget his loneliness

He feels like a child again, exploring something still undiscovered

Everything becomes possible in this place, imagination and reality blending together as if after all they made only one, only a single word divided in two halves

He reaches a larger and straighter space that stretches and stretches without end to the front

The ceiling becomes higher and higher, the water deeper, bathing his knees

The soil underneath is smooth, almost mellow, a pleasure for the feet to walk on

And a slight warm breeze rises, contrasting marvelously with the coldness of the water

The breeze becomes sharper as he goes forward still, blowing in his ears, giving a life to his hair

The water is not anymore the only master of sounds and silences

For the dripping and the gurgling has been complemented with a steady, insistent whistling

As if there were high hidden windows in the ceiling that let the breeze in

The light changes too, from a warm yellow to a silvery white

From where does the light comes is another question that remains unanswered

From the stone around, from the water itself, or from the wanderer’s eyes

Perhaps someone else in his place would see a totally different landscape

Or perhaps not

Our wanderer accepts to leave all these questions unanswered

For he is too eager to go on, to discover some fragments of all the secrets this place hides

As he goes on and on in the straight space, the walls of the gallery become more and more distant and banks appear along the river

He can now walk on the banks his feet dry letting the silvery stream carry on without him

He first hesitates to step out of the water, as used as his legs have gotten to the cold liquid that surrounded them perfectly, that embalmed them as if it was healing

But this place makes him dauntless and the dry banks promise just another kind of massage to his feet

Indeed, the stone is smooth and light to the touch, as if it was carpeted by a tiny yet invisible layer or the mellowest grass

And then, the stream starts enlarging, it becomes a proper river, wider and wider and deeper and wider still

It sparkles with thousands of tiny silvery gems

As it gets deeper and wider, its surface becomes more and more motionless, mirror like

And it only quivers slightly with the warm breeze that has become unsteady, silenced for long moments before to launch itself in a fierce surge

It’s as if the water didn’t follow the blows of the wind but obeyed its own whims, its own dance, its own melody

A very sweet and peaceful and quiet one, contrasting with the sharpness of the air above

Our wandered observes, fascinated, the silvery surface of the river that is becoming a lake

He feels on his skin the wind outbursts and wonders what the wind is trying to snatch away

And before he realizes, he has stepped onto a proper carpet of grass

The grass is of a silvery green mixed with very light tints of blue and yellow and purple

It grows in tufts and is heavenly mellow to the touch, almost cotton or cloud like

After the coldness of the water and the bareness of the banks, they are exactly what was needed to relax the feet of the traveler

He walks on and on as the lake surface sparkles of thousands of little gems that become more and more vivid as if it reflected a starry sky, as if it were covered with tiny stars or moon dust

But there’s no mistake to where the light comes from as the ceiling above is vaulted, albeit very high and with details impossible to catch with the eye

As he goes forward still he perceives a little island in the middle of the lake that shines as though it were a pregnant moon just risen from behind the mountains

It is dazzling with a white light that seems unearthly and almost too pure to be true

Now, our wanderer has eyes for nothing else but his moon island

The galleries, the vaulting, the banks, the grass, the lake surface are all forgotten, all thrown in the background of his imagination

He walks to the place on the dry banks that seems the closest to the moon island and after a moment of hesitation he stops

He stops and sits there, on the small cliff, his feet bathing again in the cold water that seems milder than he remembered

He sits and observes the moon island

It’s so dazzling with light that he cannot make out the details

He rests and lets his eyes observe the light as if they were night butterflies dragged toward a flame and thinks of nothing in particular but the beauty of this moon he has found underground

And suddenly, lo! there is a small barge that appears, silently, motionless, right under the cliff where he sits

Without thinking twice, he jumps on the barge and it starts gliding effortlessly along the sparkling surface of the lake that has been outshone by the moon island

As the barge rows forward our wanderer is surprised to see that the moon island does not seem to grow closer

And suddenly, he is gripped by the darkest of fears

A wrenching fear that freezes his heart, knots his throat, paralyzes his limbs

I will never reach the moon island, never reach it, he shivers, it all was an illusion, a trap

And as if to right him the landscape around him entirely changes

He is no longer on the mirror like surface of a peaceful lake

But thrown in dark narrow mazes with just enough light to see stalactites and stalagmites all around him and the barge on which he still is launched helplessly

But these are not natural rock formations

They are wild animals and monsters and hideous faces that seem to have sprouted from the stone

He is launched on this downward river at an incredible speed and water splashes him and gusts of wind surround him, wrap him in this deadly trap

His mind stalls before this fall and he wants to shout all his vertigo to the world but his throat cannot make any sound and he feels as though he were suffocating

His limbs and his heart and his stomach have lost all notion of where is the up and where is the down in this crazy fall where monstrous creatures pass him by an inch or two with the certainty that his barge will crash into one and he feels a surge of nausea that remains trapped in him too

Why, why, why did I came here? he wonders on the beat of his nausea and his vertigo

Why, why, why? Oh please, please, make it stop, make it stop, stop, enough, please, please!

But the crazy fall continues and he feels his mind and his body bursting with an insupportable suffering

Why, why, why was I born? Why, why, why did I believe in truth and light when it all were an illusion?

But no one replies to his incriminations and the fall continues and continues and continues

And the time passes and flows until he is too tired to stay awake, too exhausted to stay awake

And he becomes as a lifeless leaf that falls from a tree and is blown in a storming wind

But sleep does not bring rest nor oblivion as he is constantly on the edge of wakefulness, on the edge of his fear, and at every moment his vertigo threatens to blow apart his mind, and his nausea clenches at his stomach and his heart

The shadows of stones around him have become dark nightmares that his imagination makes even more alive and real

It all is a nightmare, an awful nightmare, and his heart shouts for mercy, mercy, mercy

But no one listens and the fall continues and he imagines he already is in hell and that this is only a small trial of what he will have to suffer for all infinity

But now our wanderer does not care anymore about life and heaven and hell and he only prays for the oblivion and the rest of death

Death, death, death, he shouts, screams, silently, between one nightmare and another, to the howling wind and the horrible stones around

Mercy, death

His throat is dry, so dry, his chest and his stomach about to explode, but nothing changes still

Until, suddenly, he understands

He doesn’t know what he understood, but he feels quieter, much quieter

Perhaps it is the wings of death taking him away from this nightmare

No, this is not death

He understands that he is still falling, but he is not afraid anymore

He’s not afraid anymore because he has nothing to lose, he has accepted death, demanded it even

And now he falls asleep, of a sleep without dreams, of a sleep that repairs and rests

But he is too deeply in his sleep to know that even

And when he wakes up he still is on his barge

Back on the twinkling lake of silver and at almost an arm’s length of what he had called the moon island

But now instead of staring at the island he observes the lake around him and appreciates all its peaceful beauty

He confronts its light no longer to the moon, but instead drinks in its quietness and he feels an appeasing warmth flowing into all his limbs

He breathes deeply the cool damp air that hangs motionless

He plunges his hands in the water and breathes and breathes

Slowly, quietly, the barge brings him to the shores of the moon island

It is made of a shining stone that he immediately recognizes as the legendary moonstone

The island is a small hill surrounded by the waters of the lake

He slowly climbs unto it, appreciating the texture and the mellowness of the moonstone that seems not cold nor warm, at the exact temperature of his feet

Little traces are left in the moonstone as he walks, as if he were walking on sand or snow

But these traces are short lived as if invisible waves soon came to clear them away

And as he goes forward toward the summit of the hill, our wanderer that is not anymore a wanderer starts feeling a liquid warmth flowing through all his limbs, from his heart to his mind, as if the light of the moonstone propagated through him too

This moonlight inside of him makes him lighter, even lighter, and he starts feeling as careless and joyful as if he still were an eight year old child who had nothing to worry about but play and imagine

And he finally reaches the top of the hill without even noticing since every instant of the climb was an adventure

And for a moment he stops there and observes the sparkling lake around that seems almost dark, a night starry sky outshone by a full moon, but is still beautiful

And he observes the grasslands arounds and the invisible walls and ceilings of the galleries that limit his world without limiting it as they have become invisible, dark as in a moonless night

And he enjoys this newly found freedom, breathing and breathing and rejoicing at the fairness of life

His heart swollen with love for everything around, for himself and the world at large he adventures toward the center of the conic hill that is a little bit lower

He goes down a few steps along the moonstone slopes

And suddenly, he sees her

He sees the moonflower, the tiny moonflower

A flower so white and so fair he could not even imagine

Its whiteness contrasts with the silvery of the moonstone between which it grows

It’s a tiny green plant that grows between little cracks of the moonstone slope

There are many plants that are barely visible, many closer burgeoning flowers

And only one moonflower open on all the hill

He walks toward her, his heart trembling, quivering, with a joy he could never have imagined feeling

My childhood dream, it was true, it was all true

He crouches in front of the tiny white flower

And closing his eyes he breathes its heavenly scent

He breathes and breathes and breathes

He reopens his eyes and the whiteness of the flower strikes him even more

He looks at it and suddenly he can see it all again

This dream he had entirely forgotten

This dream that had filled his heart with the joy of promises in times of yore

This dream he had barely dared believing and he had forgotten with the hardships of life

This dream was still alive, it had lived all his life hidden in the deepest depth of his heart

And now it was here, in front of him, in the moonflower

 

The same day I painted the Gray Fires

Gray fires Erik Zakhia

And the painter wrote us again, the four of us, a mail called Warm Fires, with a music again

And I continued to write my twin every single day, ranging in all the variations of emotions, from the loudest to the most subtle, from the harshest to the tenderest, using without hesitating hues of intense red and yellow and green and blue and violet, mixing them together and dreaming with colors as I used to do when I was a child and drew every day

I called her dirty whore once, another time gentle faerie

And I started wondering whether she was reading my mails or not

I was never awaiting an answer as I never felt as though she was writing me, but I always hoped that within a few days the blockage would go away

My next painting was Remembering Colors

Remembering colors

The one after, Carried Away

Carried away

Then Oppressed Memories

Oppressed memories

Then, for the first time I summoned the courage and asked her to Write me, Now, calling my mail Enough Fears

She didn’t reply

I next wrote two poems following The Moonflower called The Dream and The Perfect Carving you can read on my blog

Chantal too, had started sending her feelings and impressions to the four of us, and she had started her twins’ series with colored pencils, where on each the twins mirror themselves, each corresponding to an emotion, a state of mind, drawings I’ve used to illustrate many of the previous chapters and telling her own twin flames tale, in paintings

I continued to have sudden bouts of anger, about this or that topic of my twin’s life, and I wrote her about them, about fencing for instance, and about her studies

Then I painted Flowering Decay

Flowering

And I wrote a small missive to my twin called Listen to the Maanflusteren

Beloved princess of the Sunken Realms, captor of the Steelregel. Rest assured that I already know of your sad loneliness and your impatience. But this is a process that cannot be sped up. The potion has already been set to stew on the fire, with nearly all the ingredients required. But remember that this is not a business as simple as back then when you were retained in Epfland and we had broken you out, spreading a mist so thick after the sunset that it had confused your captors and allowed you to make an escape for the night and return quietly before dawn. This time we are confronting a well-manned Kasteldrecht that has been fortified for years and years and that cannot be famished easily. We have already broken through the external walls, but that has gained us almost nothing. The inner walls are so mightily built that we need to make them explode from below. It’s been months and months we have been relentlessly digging, and now the galleries have reached almost exactly the right place. And as soon as the magical potion is ready, we will set fire to the gallery and let it collapse, and with that the last wall of Kasteldrecht will fall. Meanwhile retain your strength and your fairness, beloved princess, and make ready to use of your favorite weapon. Handschrift, that’s how you call it? I have witnessed your progress lately, and now you have so widely expanded your repertoire, you will be devastating and shear through the soldiers of Steelregel with ease and force your way out to freedom as the mad warrior you can be. Listen to the Maanfluisteren, that’s where the signal will come from.

And another one following an anguish I felt acutely and I recognized as being hers in part, or at least it made the anguish vanish to believe so and act upon that belief

Oh           , beloved, why are you so afraid of not being unique, of not being entirely loved for who you truly are, of being lonely. Even if we all are but droplets of water in an infinite ocean, you will always and forever be unique and irreplaceable in my eyes. Between all the droplets of the world I will recognize you, over and over, whatever form you choose to hide under, whatever face you wear or fate attributes to you. Because in my eyes you will always have the right beauty in you, the one that complements mine, and no other drop of water will ever be as beautiful as you are to me. Without you, and when I say you I don’t mean your physical presence or even your written words, I mean the knowledge of you, of your existence, of my truth and yours, I cannot be happy. Whatever world I am placed in, I am bound to be miserable until I find the knowledge of you again in my heart, until I accept you fully, the grandness and entirety of this love for you that burns in me and lights my path and my life. That’s why you will never be just another droplet of water. For the light that shines in my heart will light you too, externally like a planet or a moon, and internally like a sun. And with this knowledge that we both reach, this wisdom that we remember, you will never feel alone again even if you chose to wander on an inhabited earth. For you will know that your twin soul is always with you and has always been.

It was a fertile moment of inspiration, and I wrote her yet another poem called Together

 

You are my voice

You are the music in my words

You are the places I am in

You are the world that surrounds me

 

I am your heart

I am the fire within

I am your face

I am the emotions behind

 

And then I painted Bursting, where I felt that at least of part of our black hole was opening

I felt an incredible rage and energy while painting it

Bursting

Then came Layers and I knew it was one layer after another we were digging in the black hole

Layers

A process that is still ongoing while writing this story, one layer after another before pushing the door to Hazen

I understood that me too had a heaven’s lost, just like her with the divorce

I was very nostalgic of my beautiful childhood that wouldn’t come back, and I explored in depth that feeling and those memories to help her remember and heal

I rediscovered too her ancient poems and the few drawings she had on her deviant art account she hadn’t used for years

She had at least twenty poems of which some were premonitions of what would happen between us, other hints given to me about how to heal

It was incredible to read again these poems I had thought childish too years before and find all this renewed meaning in them

She knew as a teenager she had dammed her emotions, she knew I was a mathematician counting numbers, she knew it all, or at least one part of her

And after I had finished reading each of her poems, five, ten times to integrate all their lessons, I felt she too had come to visit my blog, to see the paintings and the writings she had never seen, not many at the times, as I was not yet publishing this story

She had set her paintings about the nine shades of emotions, Range, as a cover on Facebook, put around that time she changed it, as though she was still not ready to accept that truth, and it angered me yet another time and I wrote her a mail on social media

To be noted that Chantal’s twin was very active on Instagram and Facebook, until in August she told him to stop, stop being dependent of them, and a few days later he stopped, and since he hasn’t posted anything on either of them

So at least for me and my twin and for our soul mates it paid off to say things out loud, to confront our fear to tell them what to do and be rejected

Well yes, sometimes it leads to wrecks like what happened in the Netherlands the second time, but afterwards we made a leap in our determination and understanding, so it was truly beneficial to search this connection with all our force, all our courage, regardless of consequences

My next watercolor was called The Colors Behind the Closed Garden and it was a twin painting in reality, one that symbolized my rigid attempt at creating shapes, and the second my fluid use of colors to express my emotions

the closed garden

the colors behind

One was painted with the right brain, controlled, tight, the other was more about the freedom of my hand and my left brain

Somewhat I understood I needed to find a unity between the two

Have these two techniques, gifts, put together in the same canvas

Around that time I unearthed too my older paintings I had painted one year before, encouraged by Chantal at the time

And I found new meanings into them, and realized how much painting was related to my shadow self, to my sexuality, to my forgotten memories

As I explored these dimensions I grew into all of them together

My next watercolor was called Discovering White, and in the mail I wrote my twin afterward I suddenly understood that Love was the integration of all emotions on a deeper level, like white light is the superposition of all colors

Discovering white

And the next day I understood that if my twin had deprived herself of anger and sadness, she had also barely tasted to elation

and that was why I was so nostalgic of my past, that was why I had felt so intensely my childhood

I was leaving both my joy and hers, both my anger and hers

I was a whirlwind of energy, where her life gradually became gray

And my next letter was called Sharing joy and I tried to share with her all the elation I had felt so that she’d feel it too

Meanwhile I also started trying to find deeper meanings behind the paintings of Chantal’s twin

and I discovered a very strong association between four of his paintings and four of Chantal paintings, as though three of them symbolized the three basic emotions, anger, sadness and elation, and the fourth expressed what true love, white light, balance, was

later I did these kinds of cycles too which I called the four seasons, but at the time I still was exploring watercolor that was entirely new to me

Then I painted Contradictory Winds, and I felt that oppression was returning

Contradictory wind after drying up

Chantal too unearthed old teenager drawings of her she had been ashamed to share before, and we found new meanings into them, as though she too like my twin had foreseen this future

My next painting was called The Blazing Tree

The blazing tree

And I did the Marvelous Island too, that I sent with the post to my twin in the Netherlands

The marvelous island

And I drew my first two drawings with colored pencils since ages

In the first, I just tried to draw it as I used to draw when I was a child, to see of reweaving the old movements of the past would reawaken memories, and I called it  of my childhood

The drawing of my childhood

And in the second I just let my hand and my imagination work, ending up with something strange that I liked a lot, because it seemed a symbol of the kundalini awakening, and the growing acceptance of my shadows which would lead me to love

I called it Alight, and for the first time I associated a poem with a drawing

Alight

It is the story of a town like any other in appearance

Which hides underneath the lowest of its cellars a world of its own

Rocks that slowly become a sky, highlighting a chain of mountains

A lake quietly bathing a wide beach of ocher sand

A small hill elevated by mighty roots, hiding yet another world underground

A world of roots and boughs and branches and strings and foliage

An unreadable mess for the eyes, a complex web forming a town of its own right

A tree holds together the different planes of realities

The upper town is bustling with life, animation, hurry

The lower world is still asleep, dark, unreadable

It nourishes the tree quietly, secretly, but it’s as though it was not there.

One day, the underground world suddenly wakes up

Or rather, the tree takes conscience of its existence, through its boughs, its roots

He feels the cold wind on his skin, the nourishing sap through his veins, the quenching water bathing his feet

Slowly the darkness recedes and new colors emerge, lighting this strange world still unknown to the eyes

The heart seems to understand what is going on, he pumps water from the underground rivers through the tree, he irradiates lights of different colors, conversing with the mind and the other organs

A town has come into full life, and the tree hears its echoes

And the echoes become stronger and stronger, a continuous melody threatening to push in the background the melody of the upper town that becomes closer to a cacophony for knowing ears

The underground light starts seeping through the tree, in his roots and his boughs, in the air around

And for the first time the tree sees the outside world in vibrant colors, realizing it had always been of a bland grey before

Close to the tree the soil has come open to make space for a blazing mushroom

The tree at first tries to resist this new addition through his roots, jealous of the order of the garden around him

But soon he realizes that the mushroom who has stemmed from his very roots contributes to light the world with his own glow

And he learns to tolerate him, and as understanding grows between them, he starts sheltering him in his damp shade

Under the tree and the mushroom and the lake and the mountains, the underground town is blooming with colors and life

Roots are joyfully twisting and curling, drinking water in many different rivers they can now reach, each with its own taste and color and peculiarity

Nourishing the body and the mind with this newly found diversity

And each organ grows a cathedral of its own, flower or butterfly like

And above these flowers the heart stands like a dome covering them all in his light.

 

The funny thing is that it was Chantal who had gifted me the colored pencils, and I didn’t want them at first, I kept on nagging at her asking her to take them back

but she left them in my room until I drew with them, and discovered something new

After that, I understood that each of my stronger writing and poem was twinned to a poem or writing of my twin

and it worked the same for our paintings

we didn’t do them necessarily at the same time, they usually were done a few months apart

my twin usually led the way, and Chantal led the way with her twin, interestingly

they first wrote or drew masterworks, and then we followed creating something that mirrored or completed theirs without even knowing

I found a strong correspondence between all my major stories and poems with the ones my twin had showed me

the most striking one was A foreigner, the poem I had written her back in April, and to which she had replied with a poem, contradicting the general observation I mentioned earlier of her leading the way

I was very joyful to understand this twinning of art

And that was my, our, last day in Switzerland as we had scheduled a trip to Lebanon with Chantal, I had promised her a long time before to show her my country

And in the middle of October we left Lausanne together

and the night before leaving I had troubles sleeping and drew one last watercolor, Underwater Seething, which I now realize foretold the nature of the next weeks

underwater seething

You can continue reading this story with the next chapter, The Bridge and the Constellation

Instead if you’re new here, you can start reading this story from the beginning with chapter 1 – The Dream, or the previous chapter Ultimate Rejection

 

About Erik Vincenti Zakhia

Dear all, I will share with you many of my poems, short stories, drawings and paintings telling of my journey of self-discovery and my reflections about life, love, art, spirituality, sexuality, kundalini rise, and twin flames. You will also come across many paintings by Chantal Peguiron that are intimately related to my artwork. They all fall within the realm of Hazen. If you like it, don’t hesitate to subscribe and follow me on social media! May you have an inspiring visit!

5 comments

  1. Pingback: Reuniting with my twin flame – Ultimate rejection | Erik Vincenti Zakhia

  2. Pingback: Reuniting with my twin flame – The Bridge and the Constellation | Erik Vincenti Zakhia

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