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The Source

This world and its people want me to be something.

A certain someone.

And in “becoming” a certain someone, by assuming a role, one is trapped in purgatory.

Being a “someone”, or assuming a predestined concept, is to willfully imprison oneself.

But deep down I have to believe they know the truth.

They may not want to believe it. They may abhor it.

But they must know that I cannot be that which they’d have me be.

Perhaps when I am regulated to nothing, I can be everything to everyone.

But this otherworldly process cannot be interrupted and interfered with.

I do it to myself enough as it is.

This is why I’m on the other side of the world, away from all family and friends.

This is why I cannot be around those who see me as something. Or who need me to fit a certain role.

Not today.

There is a sincere desperation in my heart.

It’s not like I have a choice.

This journey is mine and mine alone.

To fall back into a role or an old attachment pattern, is to fall back into unseriousness.

There is a secret that I am desperately after.

One I genuinely fear not discovering. Not owning.

And I feel that perhaps I’ve had inklings of what it is, all along.

But I never really understood it.

Things would happen, and I would ride the wave.

But I never really owned it.

You cannot own that which you do not understand.

These past several days, I have been desperate to set out on this mission.

And this mission is largely a feeling. A knowing that this secret exists!

But how can one set out on a mission when he doesn’t understand the objective?

I suppose the mission began with an idea, and turned into the discovery of the objective itself.

It turned out the objective was, once again, right under my nose, all this time.

I am having to become more precise in my awareness.

To see every little motive. Every little movement.

It’s like I’m driving in a circle and drifting towards the center, the core of things, ever so slightly, with each pass.

Today I had a few “strange” visions again.

They were filled with inspiration, but alas, I failed to grasp them.

And I knew that when I failed to capture the feeling, it would likely dissipate.

Inspiration waits for no man.

And then I went chasing after it. I begged and pleaded for it to come back.

But very quickly I began to see what I was doing; that it was futile.

I feel it’s almost pointless to describe these things, for they will come off as cryptic and ambiguous at best.

Pointless for someone to read them, that is.

But this has never been about that.

The priority is to solidify my own understanding.

The art will flow when it flows.

In the meantime, I must find my way to the source.