This morning I awoke to feeling the pressure to do something I don’t really want to do. My mind was telling me this pressure was coming from the outside: another person. But I know that’s not really true. The trigger may be on the outside, but it’s my own mind harassing me.
It then proceeded to conjure up several solutions that would only serve as a band-aid. I realized that if it wasn’t this pressure, I’d no doubt be imposing another on myself somehow.
The question arised as to why I write these journals. And I’m not really sure why. I feel like I already know, so why’d it arise? It seems that when I write it coaxes my mind into a one-pointedness, which often carries over into the moments after.
It doesn’t last forever, but nothing else really makes me feel this way. It’s the only “training” I know.
And so I simply sit here, sipping a bitter coffee at 11:44 am in the Thai countryside. Bluesy piano plays in the background, something I feel would be played in a “classy” bar somewhere — filled with a cast of oddball characters — quietly drinking away their sorrows. But I don’t go to bars, so what do I know.
The other two here seem to be lost in their phones; likely oddball characters themselves, seeking respite from the days monotony.
This one-pointedness of mind remains when I lift my sights toward the street ahead, watching nature blow itself around. I wouldn’t call it beautiful (though it is), and nothing in particular strikes me, earning my attention. I just take it all in.
But not for long, because it’s nothing, and it brings me nothing. I don’t mean to say that it’s bad, or not worthy — it’s just nothing. And I cannot live in nothing, just yet.
Right now, this nothing seems to be more of a utility to allow freedom of thought, and freedom from thought: a sort of lubricant to entice or allow a frictionless state.
And when I pause to take a moment to think, the friction returns. I start to think of all manners in which to continue this, which go nowhere. To remain without thought, is to allow what is to arise, rather than chasing a gum wrapper in the wind.
I suppose that when I have these deep meditations and so-called mystical experiences, and enjoy the fruits of such, writings like this seem to pale in comparison. But these moments, while they may be increasing in frequency, are still far and few between. And I feel that for this to be a true and authentic documentation of my journey, writings and journals such as this cannot be omitted.
I suppose that anything I feel is not authentic is “chasing a gum wrapper in the wind”. Or perhaps a dollar bill. I know that I’ve never enjoyed selfish writers that put up a front. And when I find the one or two who breathe authenticity, I become inspired and will read them for years on end.
But even these individuals tend to fall off. Perhaps their success leads them astray; away from what no doubt made them successful in the first place. Perhaps this newfound identity pigeonholes them into something that isn’t real.
It’s rare to see the successful say and discuss things like the person who has nothing to lose. Of course, regardless of their success, they still have nothing to lose. Any notion suggesting otherwise is a convincing illusion.
It’s for these reasons that I rarely read blogs anymore. I only ever read a select few in the first place. But even those I considered to be legends of their time seem to have lost sight. If I read, it’s usually great works of literature from the past. And even this is a rare occurrence. I know there’s countless works of greatness out there, but I seem to lack the motivation to read it.
I feel like this journal has gone on longer than necessary, perhaps forcefully so. And so what is it that I really want? Just sharing my life is not enough. It’s those damned religious experiences that tease me. Perhaps I cannot live in that state in my current environment. Perhaps I need to go back to being alone, in the dark.
Normal life simply isn’t enough. And I don’t mean normal as in nothing “special” is happening: that it lacks novel events. What I mean is living in the common state, along with the rest of humanity. It’s like I need to be alone for the “miracle of life” to be known.
I need to journey in the night, clad in black, illuminated only by moonlight. And when such is not practical? Perhaps I need only go there in my mind. Perhaps I will write about this. Where will it lead?