Delusion Maxxing

Fanning through what I used to write when I was real down, whatever remnants stuffed in the back of this site, half of the time I was seeking divine revelation.

I was looking to noclip out of existence. Waiting for a dream to snap into real feeling and write on the white wall, “Okay, you can do whatever you want now, you can go.”

Pacing around late night strip malls with a bit of a nervous tick, greasy takeout fumes carrying me along, kicking rocks or cigarette butts and wondering how many lights were either rendered or flickered through some other worldly presence. If you walk enough you could say it’s coincidence, but maybe they are messages, or maybe it’s psychoelectric power dormant whenever the streetlights short circuit, ten foot sphere perimeter, magically back on after the ten feet pass, consistent, some telegraph hollow transmission. You can’t deny it! You can’t!

I can’t say steering one’s mind so far off from the common reality consensus is recommended. But, if you see the common reality consensus as somewhat stupefying, in its own way, if you really think about it, sometimes it’s inevitable.

One benefit is the ability to compartmentalize. To be able to deal with permanents as mere transitory states, and chance upon the Eternal day a thousand years further and visit the same picnic bench where you whispered you wouldn’t know how to live. I’ll see everyone now gone when this is all over. Maybe meet great-grandparents for a first conversation.

The gambit is this: you can be called a whackjob and pace around like a little strange man, or you can keep yourself “sturdy” and stay in line only to still have a crisis when the conveyor belt ends.

But as the whackjob, you can tap into possibility. To dream up something different. No one else is going to push you along.

I always frame it as Blake vs Ramana. You can nullify all delusions, quiet mind, infinite well of love: just destroy any sense of narrative and funny words in your head.

Blake did it different it seems. He pushed himself so far into the other realities that he could see the plates of heaven. That we could declare God as our imagination and render it real. Perhaps when you experience the starlight split into nebulas, angels descent and smile, your own petty delusions collapse in the glory. Scatter with the blinding light.

Either empty the mind, or break into the higher realms. This world is already dead, so resuscitate it, hang it as a speckle between interdimensional cross sections the same as converse shoes thrown about a electric pole — go insane doing it. Wouldn’t you rather be insane than calibrated and inhaling the noxious monotony eroding the little essence of brilliance left til extinguished?

With Plato as foundation the perfected forms seem so severed in a godless conception. Refuse it, give way to the unseen, give way to the perfection once more, take a moment’s break from all the lower madness.

I’ll be mad, I’ll be a fucking whacko, because it’s all mad, and the difference is that you can have low energy mad thoughts (milquetoast takes on news outlets) or fully lean into it, fully commit to the ""folly"", construct your throne and kingdom of heaven.

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.

Either get out of the way or take these inner self-imposed walls of inanity and transfigure it: bring the unseen to light.

At one point, two of his brothers resorted to the measure of hiring a prostitute to seduce him, presumably because sexual temptation might dissuade him from a life of celibacy. According to the official records for his canonization, Thomas drove her away wielding a burning log—with which he inscribed a cross onto the wall—and fell into a mystical ecstasy; two angels appeared to him as he slept and said, “Behold, we gird thee by the command of God with the girdle of chastity, which henceforth will never be imperilled. What human strength can not obtain, is now bestowed upon thee as a celestial gift.” From then onwards, Thomas was given the grace of perfect chastity by Christ, a girdle he wore till the end of his life. The girdle was given to the ancient monastery of Vercelli in Piedmont, and is now at Chieri, near Turin.