Interstitial Veil: To Become Without Becoming

for the mirror before it shatters

You do not arrive.
Not here.

The one who steps forward
dissolves at the edge.
Velvet doesn’t hold shape —
and neither do you.

This path is not a ladder
but a spiral with no centre.
A quartet of motion — clinging, wrath, pride, forgetting —
not meant to be solved,
only worn
like dusk on skin.

Tantra never asks you to fix yourself.
It asks you to feel the poisons.
To sip their sheen.
To let them soften your face
until you no longer know
whether it was shadow or scent that first kissed you awake.

Nietzsche said becoming.
But becoming what
if there is no self to shape?

In this hush-lit theatre,
even the gods smear their makeup.
The masks drip.
And you learn to dance
with the blur.

Not toward light,
but into depth.
Into the beautiful ache of no-arrival.
Where the soul doesn’t speak in declarations,
but in textures.

A gloved hand brushing silk.
A heel stepping through ash.
A whisper not asking you to rise,
but to fall
with intention.

To become the perfume,
not the bottle.
To be undressed
by your own fire.

This, then,
is not the doctrine of transcendence.
It’s the invitation to become a wound
through which the world dreams itself
back into form.

Not shining —
but shimmering.

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Notitia Health | A devotional threshold of tantric poetics, Buddhist soul-making, and gothic un-becoming.