There’s an inexplicable feeling that continues to arise in my life. A running theme.
And I’m not quite sure how to explain it.
Nor do I think explaining it to myself or another would do any good.
Trying to relay a message often distorts it. The signal becomes lost in translation.
And if this distortion results in essentially nothing, why continue?
It’s far more beneficial for myself to keep the signal clean.
And so I feel that my writing is about to divert in another direction.
It’s not helpful for me to feel the need to explain myself, or to help another.
And I do not like the place this need spawns from.
The irony is that not doing this may be the most helpful thing of all.
But that’s not the goal.
The goal is to discover the truth for myself, first and foremost.
And so the freedom to create esoteric cave paintings must be mine.
Indeed, I’ve had visions of what ultimate freedom may entail, or feel like.
And one is that of a man, alone in a cave, writing on the wall.
This is the only way I can truly learn. I cannot be concerned with anything else. I cannot have the mind run off, seeking to tend to trivial matters, and that which bears no fruit.
Things are becoming more clear to me.
It’s quiet reverie that keeps me up at night.
A reverence filled reverie.
Not every night.
Only when the bucket’s full and begins to overflow.
This cycle seems to be repeating itself quicker and quicker.
I don’t know why I continue to doubt it. Even if only for a moment.
Because the next day it’s back full-force, dragging me by my feet.
And so I’m not driving but I’m driven.
Even driven will be read as a forceful act.
But this couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’m dragged and I’ve always been dragged.
This thing has been knocking on my door for years and at first I couldn’t hear it.
Perhaps I mistook it for creaking walls and whispering winds.
Nothing ever felt right until I tuned into this voice that was trying to speak to me.
And I don’t know if I ever would have, if not by a chance encounter.
There’s been several factors throughout my life, that had they played out differently, certainly it would have been snuffed out.
The fact it wasn’t demands I see it through. Or that it sees itself through.
The truth is “I” don’t really want to do anything. And perhaps I’m beginning to prefer it this way.
Anything I do will be muddied and corrupt.
It’s much better to simply allow what needs to happen to happen.
As soon as my mind gets a hold of it the energy dissipates.
Living like this seems akin to a dream state, and this is because having become so accustomed to thought, living outside of it feels unreal. It feels oddly empty, and quiet.
Effortlessness is an eerie thing.
It’s like you’re following the aroma of the pie on the windowsill that’s found you downwind.
Not following, but floating towards: like those old cartoons.
This floating is what’s effective and true.
And so as long as the enticing aroma exists, so will this.
When it’s gone?
Well, I don’t know that it’s ever gone.
It seems more likely to me that it simply becomes masked; overridden by an unruly mind.
There’s these ideas in my being — not ideas — but feelings. Perhaps feelings of what could be. An intuitive perception of a possibility that is perhaps available only to me. This “flavor”, at least.
And so things continue to repeat themselves, but with each loop, a quicker pace.
What happens when there’s no more loop?
What happens when one completely falls into the void?
What are the things that would prevent this from happening?
So many things, I’m afraid.
But perhaps these things, while present, will fade into the background, as the signal grows in strength.
This seems to be the case.