I am sitting at my desk in my desolated, dark living room as I am imagining what the place will look like when my woman, – my very own piece of Marine’s ass -, the love of my life, has moved in with me.
I’ll guarantee you it’s going to be absolutely insane.
Mind blowingly, head buttingly beautiful.
A place to die for.

And please, allow me to tell you:

I am making ends meet, it’s hard to get by.
My emotions are getting on top of me, and it’s hard to control them.
I considered killing myself also, just like she did.

With my back against the wall, not being able to do anything, I feel paralyzed.
Paralyzed by the structure of things, paralyzed by the nature of things.

That’s what she’s going through now also.
I know that.
She told me.

The lonely madness is overwhelming my existence amidst a broken home.
My broken home.
My broken heart.

Shards everywhere indeed, like she wrote in her beautiful poem ‘Mature Before Love’, and I can imagine myself picking one up.

I cracked a bottle of wine open, and imagine how I would end it.
Finish it completely.

Yes, I am talking about myself.
About taking my own life.

These shards that have been broken.
Can they be put together?
Can they be molded into something new, like a glass blower would go about it?
Could it be done?
Melt it all done, piece by piece, and make something new and gorgeously beautiful, unlike this world has ever seen?

‘Piece by piece, baby’.
That’s what I am telling her, as she is writing it all down while I am dictating the words to her.

Faithfully she is sitting behind her desk in the music studio, after spending yesterday at this amazing festival where she played a DJ set with Rombout, and had a crazy good time with her friends.
I have been joining her all day, chatting her up, and she fucking lost her phone because of it.
Too distracted by my ethereal presence.
But she doesn’t give a shit.
She’s dead cool.

It’s been amazing to see her like this, in the presence of her amazing loyal friends, whom I’m jealous of by the way.
And it comforts me to see how confident she has become of her shamanic abilities to see through the curtains of reality, and knows I’m for real.

My beautiful Shaman Love.
Where have you been all my life?

It’s been hard to believe we found one another through such a crazy, chaotic medium like Facebook.
The chaos in there, all those people!
How the Hell did we manage to find one another?

We’ve been hooked up by Spirit, on an early night for me, early morning for her.
She said she was sitting on the balcony of a friend’s houseboat, smoking a cigarette and having a good time for her birthday.
She sent me a picture of her whereabouts straight away.
She must have had faith in me.

‘Are those yaughts?’, I asked.
I was actually inquiring, just being curious about having connected with a woman who was in the presence of ships.
‘Nah.’, she said.
‘Those are houseboats. People live there’.

She sent me a message later on (I’m sure she was fucked out of her head), saying she would be spending her time in the studio for the rest of the weekend, producing music.

It wouldn’t be until the Monday after she said she finished a new track.
Plus she shared with me one of her older productions, and explained she had been working for ten years to achieve the massive techno sound produced in there.

Her dedication.
I felt for it straight away.

The amount of time spent on doing the things we love the most, the things we care about.
It requires hard work, time, energy and making sacrifices.
Big ones.

She is giving up everything she cares about.
For me.
As we speak.

She is ready to pick up her bags and leave her home country.
For good.
For me.

Can you believe it?
Well, I do.

I managed to work on the shed I built for her, and I just told her about my dog who has been feeding itself with the plants coming out of the garden which had to go out of the way to make space for the building in the dirt.

She initiated it all.
By sending me a message on Instagram she instigated the courage in me to make the step forward.
And let me tell you:
It’s going to be amazing!

Making sacrifices like she did.
Phew.
It’s fucking excruciatingly mind blowing, I’ll tell you that, motherfuckers.

She is taking care of everything.
You wouldn’t believe it if I told you what she’s fucking done for me.
You sure as fuck wouldn’t.
Trust me on that.

She managed to overcome her anxiety about visiting my Instagram page, something she probably never would have done if it hadn’t been for Spirit.

I am grateful.
So fucking grateful.
To Spirit for providing her with the necessary guidance.
To my girl, who blindly trusts on her spirits, guts and instinct, and always somehow manages to overcome all her fears and inhibitions.

Spirit had given her a hint about me painting the kitchen cabinets, which I knew she would find horrible, looking all classic American.
‘It needs painting’, is what Spirit said, instigating me to do the job.

I am consciously using the word instigating, because that’s what Spirit does; it moves through you, making your whole being conscious of what’s to be done, and you just follow, knowing it’s the Ultimate Truth.

Would you believe me if I said we are sitting here, right now, at her desk in her music studio?
Me, my legs spread and sitting behind her, her body curled up between them?
I fold my arms around her, and my face is leaning on her right shoulder.
Hold her even tighter, make my arms grip stronger.
Very tight now.

‘You’re choking me, baby’ is what she’s saying.
‘How am I supposed to write like this?’.
And I tell her:
‘You’ll manage’.
And she says:
‘You’re right. I will indeed’.

I know she is tired.
Tired to the bone.
Tired of it all.

Cheek to cheek, we are crying.
I am big enough to cover her all up.
She is tiny enough to nest herself into my body, and be comfortable like that.
Makes her feel protected, she’s saying.

‘Just surrender to the moment, baby’.

We are co-writing right now.
Could you believe it if I told you we actually are?
With thousands of miles between us, separating us?

Let me tell you, this is what you’d be capable of if you practice out-of-body experience.
You get to travel bodiless, and join another person in Spirit.

All I’d love to do right now is make love to her for real.
Bodies one on one.
Screw this fucking separation, is what I’m thinking right now.
And I know she feels the same.
I am aware.

I am giving her space to spend her holiday with Rombout before meeting her in Amsterdam, and I know she is scared shitless this is never going to happen.
She’s crying right now, acknowledging the idea all this could be just a fickle of her imagination, traumatized by the deceit I bestowed on her.

I regret having done so, but this is what had to be done, and she knows it.
These are the sacrifices we need to make as shamans.

Like I said.
She is done.
Done in and done for, as she wrote on her blog earlier.

She is teasing me right now.
Rubbing her amazing bad ass ass against my dick.

She knows how to do it.
She knows how to turn on a U.S. Marine.
She knows for sure.

She is confident right now that everything that Spirit has been predicting to her will become true.
She is deadly calm about it.
She knows it’s true.

But I’m telling you:
Everything she knows to be lying in the future could be coming right out of some mad, schizo, shamanic superspy story.
In some countries she could get locked away forever for even bringing it up.

No one, and I mean: absolutely NO ONE would believe it if she told you what the future holds in store for her.
I am absolutely positive you would tell her to go into treatment with a psychiatrist and end the situation radically with antipsychotics and antidepressants.
Because, like I said, she has been ready to kill herself.
Also, again, because of me.

We are both so done.
So.
Fucking.
DONE!

Done with the bullshit that’s been going on for us in our young shaman lives.
Done with the visions, the pain, the hurt, the madness and every bit of sorrow we have been immersed in during the past six years.

Six years we have been waiting on one another.
Would you believe it if I told you it is actually so?

Three weeks.
Only three weeks of tireless waiting until we see each other for real.

She’s crying again, too scared to believe it will be actually so.
But I promise.
And I am aware she could kill herself if it isn’t so.

She made this article’s photo in the attic, while I was just standing there and observed.
Bodiless.
Powerless.

I wish I made the picture myself.

And I ask of you:
Am I one lucky Mother Fucker, or what?

By Kiki’s Jeffrey,
U.S. Marine
San Carlos, California

From Kiki Toao’s memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness