I’ve held a detached tone for a good while in the hopes of maintaining some sort of impartial persona, but that whittled away as the world dissolves around me in its marshmallow fish tank. For I’m not sure who I’m deferring to anymore. Who are you hoping to get to know whenever you write? What are you trying to do with your website?
Lately I’ve been hugging imagination and whatever that spawns far more closely than necessary; what’s to admire about meandering stupefied in your head? It seems imagination is idolized when one no longer bothers to connect heart and mind. And maybe you sever them in deference, but why? To connect heart and mind, meld imagination with reality.
Don’t ask permission for bliss!
The strangest and strongest delusion I come across is how people imagine their Perfect State. Maybe if they just had a better body, a better face, a wider smile, a happier family, a better paying job, no job, three billion dollars, confidence, swagger, a loving partner, loving friendships, a posse for a night out, large champagne glasses to break — what happens after? If you still have the same brain, well, good luck, you’ll find another insignificant thing and try with all your might to have your cake, eat it too, lap up some frosting for your churning stomach. And if you didn’t have the same brain, you’ll just feel the same unfulfilled moment after anyway. The shores of materially-confirmed desire will erode you simply and without respite.
The inability to see that there is no Salvation in the Future, and there is no Salvation when you acquire this External Condition Confirmed By Other Entities, and when you remember that all Empires are now in Dust, Dead, they have been Dead — you must not give in to the waves others make for you, and you yield. Salvation is only had by Saying It Is So. For, more often than not, Salvation comes as SUBJECTIVE break-loops and DEFINED BY YOUR INTERNAL MAKEUP.
“Ah, if you do not have X, Y, or Z, and Friends and Family and a Purpose Ordained by Society and Passions and Fame and Respect and Love and Moneymoneymoney and Impressed Yes Men All Around You and the Perfect Body In Its Immaculate Conception that conforms to the Ideal Image of Man with Woman, you’re a goner and condemned and if you say otherwise I will label you as Mentally Unsound and prescribe you many Pills to FIX YOU UP on the CORRECT VISION that I ORDAINED FOR YOU because I cannot imagine a reality where I do NOT have these things and yet am and want to ENSLAVE YOU to the way I SEE THE WORLD because you are a WEAKLING that’ll let me DO SO just as my ADVERTISING MASTERS did FOR ME.”
STOP BEATING YOURSELF UP! Don’t let them get to you… don’t!
To the above tune I imagine my water flows resetting once more. A pure stream again… what obstructions are you letting in? No worries, the water will flow past regardless.
Although it is far easier to act as though that stream translucence is unattainable, it’s just lies. Where you’re just gonna be murky waters the rest of days. But it’s just a cop out. A lie. It only perpetuates under our guise.
There will be archipelagos in the distant view. Jutted rocks standing for centuries to guard the bay. We’ll float until the water turns to milk and the sky is all midnight to display screens of conquests, statues and brooding masterminds playing chess with life and death at its center — the shook 19 year recruit before the battle of Vienna.
There’s no more permission to ask for. For example, looking at photos makes me a bit sad, especially drawings, because of how it can’t bridge to reality; it’s locked forever, dead and inanimate. But then I got to thinking, and now I’m sure there’s a reality where it’s alive. I’m only confining myself to a limited world-view if I don’t see that reality. Permission is embedded in a lot of things.
You may protest and say, this is all solipsism and you’re just a dunce of a person and, well, I can’t even say you are right or wrong; I can only affirm that life is a strange serenade which has no final act, for the final final act requires you to leave the theater and write your screenplay. Be wary, for the ocean drains and your eye sockets have been plugged in for so long until they’re shriveled and inundated with the latest desires of sex, love, friends, food, travel, fame, mastery, and more delusions for your mistresses of the night.
Can you live without names?
Sister: Alice…! Will you kindly pay attention to your history lesson?
Alice: I’m sorry, but how can one possibly pay attention to a book with no pictures in it?
Sister: My dear child, there are a great many good books in this world without pictures.
Alice: In this world perhaps. But in my world, the books would be nothing but pictures.
Sister: Your world? Huh, what nonsense. Now…
Alice: Nonsense?
Sister: Once more. From the beginning.
Alice: That’s it, Dinah! If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrariwise, what it is, it wouldn’t be, and what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?
Dinah: Meow!
Alice: In my world, you wouldn’t say ‘meow’. You’d say ‘Yes, miss Alice’.
Dinah: Meow!
Alice: Oh, but you would! You’d be just like people, Dinah, and all the other animals too. Why, in my world… Cats and rabbits, would reside in fancy little houses, and be dressed in shoes and hats and trousers. In a world of my own. All the flowers would have very extra special powers, they would sit and talk to me for hours, when I’m lonely in a world of my own. There’d be new birds, lots of nice and friendly how-de-do birds, everyone would have a dozen bluebirds, within that world of my own. I could listen to a babbling brook and hear a song, that I could understand. I keep wishing it could be that way, because my world would be a wonderland.
Dinah: Meow! Meow! Meow!
Alice: Oh Dinah! Its just a rabbit with a waistcoat… and a watch!