Leave it open ended and it’ll find a way to haunt you.
Open ended is the essence of procrastination, isn’t it?
Am I doing this… or am I not?
Open ended is how a lot of lives unravel.
Why am I here?
Why are you here?
Why continue?
Are these ever answered adequately?
Rarely. One instead barricades against all serpents and wolves lying about. Rightfully so – a test of sorts I suppose.
Yet in your fort overlooking the fall of Carthage, don’t you hope for the golden thread to string it all together – all is not lost?
To be Faustian!
It’s not that I put my soul on the alter. Nor is it for sale. No, I don’t see the sweetness of riches and other Faustian delights. None at all.
If that’s so, then why the name?
Because I’m still putting myself on an alter. A sacrifice of sorts. An altar where one is crumbled and rebuilt continuously. One where I no longer know who I am anymore. Letting the abyss swallow me whole to gnash me into something of worth.
For the Faustian gambit may be portrayed as the death of the spiritual, but one may also construe it to be a type of ruthlessness. It’s a type of gambit that shatters the very foundation of one’s existence. So I will rip my self in two or threes if it means I will solve whatever my issue is. To be ruthless. To not concede.
Eyes of stone you’ll find in devout followers of the newest religions, whether materialism or liberalism or new-ageism and foodism and scientism and etc. But these things never answer the problems I have. It never does anything more than a pat on the back and says, “At least you have this.”
So I refuse. I refuse it entirely. May the Divine still know I sense it, and hope to know it, but now I feel as though they’re waiting for one to go at it alone. To press forward on your own terms of what existence is. That’s what Faust did: he redefined his terms, although I would never agree with such terms.
Although I deny Faust’s terms, I acknowledge the boldness of redefining such terms, the sacrifice involved, and the ruthless execution. Faust did not stop toward his heart desires: nor will I. Opposite conclusions, yet parallels. Thus the name.
You only concede when you no longer challenge the very propositions of your existence. So, write off “facts” that kill the soul. Destroy “facts” the soul sheepishly holds onto. Such boldness may destroy me; well, so be it! I’d rather be no longer than be a “realist”. For when you put yourself on this neofaustian alter, the first tenet is rightfully written:
Everything is possible.
Magic exists. Dragons fly. Parallel worlds lurk. Latent power rests within you. Time machines are waiting. Gods are both alive and dead. Magnificent pasts haunt us as well as not exist. Everything may be rewritten.
When Faust gives away his soul, he becomes no longer human. It isn’t any different for the neofaustian. For if being human means being a frail flesh body of erroneous “immutable” science and helpless, then no thank you. No more. Evolve. We are much more than that, but we must fight for it.
Putting your self ‘on the alter’ is akin to shedding everything one knew and asserting that whatever one dreams is possible. That what you dream you can bring into the world. To rip the very fabric of time to reach and see beauty alive in this world. To MAKE beauty in the world! TO FEEL BEAUTY IN THE WORLD! To see beyond the current world. To endure everything in order to feel the warmth once more. To fight to the death for what you believe in.
Do not accept anything less. You will find and fend off all obstacle. Learn!
Life is full of concessions you have to take.
I’ve never heard words more anathema to the soul.
Feel the awe and glory in your construction – how the ethereal parts of you float along. And how much more waits.
Feel the pulse of your heart and its thread toward infinite reality.
Wipe away the tears.
Clench your fists and see the veins rise, just as you will.
You are not a deaf dumb mute. Nor a mule of chemistry.
Embrace the soul and all metaphysical.
Paint new worlds.
Sisyphus will reach the top.