Think I’m finally figuring things out. Isolation is the best thing for me because it forces the pain to the forefront to examine it. The more alone you are the more you are forced to face your two dimensional character traits and mutable feelings. Nothing about the ego or the persona, especially, is staid. Only by forcing an unquiet mind in constant flux to be still, to be quiet, to be alone, to turn within to disperse with the surface needs and the demands and to get into the dark of the self will someone like me ever have any kind of spiritual or intellectual progress.
The more I fashion my day to day life in a solitary manner of exercise, meditation, brutal honesty about my motivations for everything, and work, the more I’m forced to endure the pain of reality. The longer I do this the more of a habit I form until the practice becomes second nature.
The pain and void almost are becoming pleasant, the way fasting too long becomes more pleasurable than sating yourself once you get used to it. Time to fast on distractions, not feast on them nor feast on others.
The purest moment you’ll have in life is when you are utterly completely alone because you only have yourself to face or to run from. Let’s see what you’re made of.
The final hour is upon us even if it takes a few decades to kick into that last slow motion fall into the ending we all meet. Perhaps when our eyes give up we can’t see the landing, perhaps our ears deafen at the sound of stopping, maybe the electrons and pulsings are disconnected before they cease dancing.
Maybe it is the eternal dark and not the light that is the reward. Begin in the muffled dark, end in the soft slow void, returned to before we had the pulp and the strain.
Why is darkness bad news? Why is light hoped for? What is sleep but a dive into the shadow of our selves for a respite from life?
Love is an expression of living but letting go is the only way to die, whether we cease being or we are born again as someone else, forever shifted and strange and new until the next ending and the next.
The snake eats itself to create a perfect circle.
The body teases life and then does a disappearing act. We only play at this life for awhile. We only touch the earth a few moments before waving adieu too soon to make our bon courage good-bye seem believable.
Life is the big escape from the inevitable. Refuge is a fairy tale you tell children so they don’t go mad. Revealing too much about Death is giving away the game before it is played. No matter how many times you play, you never play the same hand twice, even as we repeat the same circle we always have and always will.
Perhaps love and hate are formed in memory and perhaps the slipping away of remembrance is the relief we cannot name. Whether the light or the dark awaits us, whose to say they are not one in the same?
You amaze me. You ensnare me. Your soul overpowers me. I want to be sublime to you. Sublimate myself and love you in a beautiful and high manner for the rest of my days. I could write you a thousand sonnets and sonatas, and still not encompass the breadth and depth I feel for you. You came a moment before the death knell and I will love you more than any woman before you has, I will be more alive and more courageous than any of my predecessors, and you will be my greatest masterpiece. I want us to play each other like notes in the only harmony that is befitting of us… somewhere betwixt a duet in summer and a quartet in autumn. Do you know all I’ve seen and known and learned and tasted and felt and above all else, dreamt, before you… the man above all else? Do you know what we crawled out of both of us to reach this precipice. I just ask you… no I demand … if you really truly want me for your bride and your worshipful wife, your girl, your lover, your champion, …just love me… really love me.
You know I’m a Romantic then and I’m a Romantic now and this is how I’ll love you if you want it… this is how I know how to love, this is how I’ve always wanted to love, and needed a man, a soul, a mind, a heart, who could take the enormity of my feelings.
Sorry, but I’m a Romantic like Novalis or Keats or Byron or Shelley and I will tell you the truth until my last breath and … I love love love you .