::This is a meditation on the nature of self and of happiness written in the early hours of a late summer day in 2017::
It is not that there is a better me waiting to be attained through action; but instead, there is a being whom I have chosen to be in coherence with our seemingly instinctual, primal urge to act; as a means to provide ourselves with experiencing the natural most joyful and best state you can be whilst maintaining that lesser self.
If I am to teach, I would desire only to serve as a conducive, flexible, and fluid resistance against the dominant parts of the student. I would wish to evoke a pressure to redirect your heart and mind to the center that is you- inward, that is you.
Everything about this world that you wish to attach to, or as we see it, add to the repertoire of our personality- It is that very thing which pushed us away from that center, from our innermost and best selves.
But it is a consuming spiral; the image most appropriate and remarkable, our own galaxy- its extremities are spiraling into the center of it all. This vacuum resistance propelling us, curving us from being straight and outward in our direction, in our purpose, in our imagination, and now changing that direction back inward for the purpose to fulfill the need to know the self, to find and be the self, the ultimate self you aspire to be.
The smallest bits of us that surrender into the self, into the center, spiraling across the edge and slowly devoured into nothingness. A tunnel of fictitious waste disintegrating an immeasurable mass at each moment.
The smallest stars, smaller than our own, as forgotten dreams. Waiting and wasted of its power, for a yet brighter star, a yet bigger, to believe that there is a greater life to be achieved by a larger source of the same light. The smaller ones are filled with pressure and tension and gravity and its all so very uncomfortable to imply you could survive on such fanatical ideas. So the bigger stars, they're easy to see, they cover more ground, leaving you enough room for safety. Enough of a guarantee that you won't tend to anything less, and it becomes dust all the same and all instantaneously as the power of love is removed from it.
These bigger notions, on the farthest reaches of the universe, as a firework bursting in the air and light is rocketing out in all directions, straight and outward, filled with pride and vigor. But a fire that burns for an eternity, that expands constantly, that becomes more and more endlessly. This fire containing all that is suddenly realizes that in order to be more of itself, it must be less. Lighten the load. Let some of the debris settle off and its ember be snuffed out by the vacuum of space. Then comes the curve, the realizing of self, the realizing of truth, the becoming of self. Curves and curves until its pointing inward and realizing that it was always what it wanted to be. There was nothing ever to achieve.
The liberty conceived of such imaginings of how it is, makes for an almost tribal beckoning to detach from the world. It is not a notion or practice of a better person. It is not the outcome of long term dedication. It is not even something one can hold with them as an ideology if they are to detach from this world; the ideology that our truest selves are not of this physical dimension.
So to imagine that the best part of you, who is waiting for you to realize itself, cannot be achieved by acting in this world. Many lesser and functional and successful versions can arise as mediators for bringing the higher self into the environment of the lesser self. And it can very well seem as though you have made out with everything you wanted, yet it remains still that you are maintaining a lesser self whose disguise physically mimics that intangible ideology of the highest self.
Knowing this, I have considered that only non-physical experiences can come close to the truth of a self that is non-physical; whether next best or the best. Emotions are largely non-physical, the small fraction of its physicality is portrayed through expressions of those emotions like crying or yelling. So that larger, non-physical part, is what I'll focus on, as opposed to feeling justified in any spontaneous expression of those sudden emotions.
Much like in my tendency to give 100% attention to the expression of the emotion, rather then the emotion itself, I am always shy of the win. Nevertheless, I try and try again, reaching to enrich my life endlessly, by hoping to achieve an emotional and mental balance through physical means.
In other words; when I want a fuller and richer experience, I am sure that my then established state of mind and emotion are the result of and the goal of the preceding action, when in fact they are operate and essential systems in producing the end result.
To say differently, you cannot involve yourself in a situation without including your emotional and mental states AS PLAYING FACTORS in the outcome of your actions. You cannot exclude your state of mind and emotion from contributing tremendously to the result of your decisions.
So with this in mind; the fact that my emotions and my mental state is readily and tremendously involved in the outcome of my actions, of my decisions- what shall I do next? Will the next decision I make come from a state of need, of lack, saying 'I don't feel well so, I'll go and get some ice cream and I'll feel a little better, a little uplifted'? or will we align our emotions and thoughts differently and say, from a state of preemptive joy 'today has been a great day, let's top it off with some ice cream'?
This fundamental understanding will facilitate, will breed, will exude well being for you in your life.
When I begin to apply my emotion and mental state into my decision making, I will find my own logic cannot convince me to make a decision that I don't feel good about making. I find that my own, possibly strict, set of values and beliefs will somehow have some wiggle room to make for an easier process in producing outcomes. The experience comes of feeling good before making a decision.
It is in this way, we can achieve a state that is more natural and therefore more joyful, and so liberated, simply by willing ourselves into a higher emotional state, as opposed to a higher physical accomplishment.
It is then that our actions are not made to gain anything from their playing out. There is simply an expression of your natural self into the physical world. There is no emotional dependence on those physical accomplishments, be in the form of a important title or a home with a family. Yet at the same time, those dreams we once attached to will play themselves out in our lives. We will get to experience those dreams unhindered from the state of our natural selves.
The action of experiencing your dreams, the action of what it takes to play your part, comes as a result, an effortless result, of aligning with your higher self through higher states of emotion.
That which you will not affirm as true of yourself can never be realized by you for that attitude alone is the necessary condition by which you realize your goal.
- Neville Goddard, The Power of Awareness
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
The Pain and Pleasure of Love
This is me, now.
I'm writing this in the early morning of January 17th of the year 2017.
There is little I could explain at the moment with proper language, but my hope, albeit detrimental, is to lose myself in the typing and somehow formulate the correct variation of words amounting to something of comprehensible diction. This isn't written for the purpose of leaving impressions or provoking thought, which are synonymous to the more common agenda of these readings; no, this, as formerly mentioned, is me. The me which, after revising these words and as you read them, will be something entirely different, yet tires still from remaining reticent.
For as long as I can recall, it has been of urgent importance to protect my true self. The self, which I know very well, but remains hidden to each and all persons I have ever come in proximity to, save the corners of my own mind, and the bathroom mirror. This self, which I know very well, but have little understanding of. The self, lingering, docile, so as to not disturb the lower being which I identify with and carry forth into the interaction with and the experience for others. This self, which reveals the truth of all things before me, until the lower being in my ownership dampens the astonishment of, with a severe level of denial in order to keep on it's own game.
The game of life, of survival, of success, of failure. The constant battle between myself and this lowest form of forms - the doing, the building, the creating, the destroying, the falling, the scraping of knees, the stubbing of toes, the inevitable rising, the growing, the grace, the despair, the loneliness, the drowning, the flying, the solitude, the halfheartedness, the yearning, the necessities, the nonchalance, the anxiety, the infatuations, the orgasms, the consumption, the wastefulness, the mercy, the morals, the vices, the unending boredom, the intolerable stupidity, the unlimited variance of distraction, the readied cannons of opinion firing at whim, the overwhelming lack of consideration, the complete eradication of compassion, the trembling wake of human indecency, the absolute, the ultimate, the love for every bit of it.
Love and all it's curves and facets and corners and scars.
Love and all it's hate and glory and pride and envy.
Love and all it's birth and death.
This is me, and my lowest self called Love. Here and now, I await your arrival, in patient regard for the distance of our very hearts to lessen. Not in the diluted sense of distance apart from one another, but the difference in volume measured between the particles of air and matter. As the distance lessens, you, my love, become greater, in all sense of the word. As the distance lessens, you may consider the experience quite expansive, and yet becoming rapidly less of yourself. This is not losing yourself, it is not losing me, love. It is becoming. Becoming in such a fashion that you are broken, shattered, defiled, punctured, sunken, exiled, marred, worn, abandoned, utterly destroyed a billion times over and eternally still, all in the name of yourself, love.
For here I stand, on a floor which isn't there, waiting in a place with no time, thinking of you without a mind, craving your touch without a body, hungering for your taste without a tongue. I wish to sing for you, yet I have no voice. I wish to dance with you, yet have no feet. I wish to give you everything you've ever wanted, yet have nothing to consider giving. There is nothing I can give; at least nothing you could hold in your hands, and it breaks my heart, though there is no heart for this body, and no body in my possession.
What I would give to have you again; what I would take.
What retched discrimination, an almost aspired willingness to self-degradation. Feeble minded cowards wandering along with not a inkling towards what horrors might manifest through their hearts. Wasted, gorgeously wasted sentiment, beautiful memories molding over, precious little value contained in the grandest and most worshiped of ideologies, such magnificent complexities over the simplest of notions, infinitesimal capability of sight pressed into a grand miracle of just a few colors.
I despise this waiting, love. I can no longer stand this anticipation. If I must wait any longer for you to look up and see me...
I have not even the states of consciousness to perceive such anticipation, yet I feel it. I have not even the awareness to feel, yet I am here, aching. The aching, the aching, the aching, such dreadful aching.
Love.
Love. Love. Love.
Why must you keep me, love?
Why would I even tread on the false hope that you might hear even the loudest of utterances from my lips?
Can you not hear me because I have no voice? Do you avoid me because you cannot recognize me as your own? Why should I bother even asking these questions? What foolishness I have undertaken just to cope with your absence. I might admit I have succumb to these foul human behaviors of yours in attempt to become even slightly more transparent to your ever sinuous attention. Should I aim to amaze? What little that even means to you; I might as well be a leaf decayed, blowing across pavement just below your feet. There I might be noticed.
Though there are moments - seemingly lifetimes - when I am the one who is astonished; when I am overflowing with admiration, with unhindered occupation of your unbridled assimilation. The freedom in it, which I scarcely might assume that you see. Your gracious modesty in the remnants of forgotten wisdom. Come now, like you don't already know.
Though, your performance is taking the best of you. I see, at times, when you let it go; when you take a moment outside the mansion, away from the masquerade. When your eyes glance through the wall, through the floor; staring ever deeper. I see, at times, the release, the burden lightening. The ascension, I believe you call it. The broadening of you, love.
That is me. It is me you look towards, yet do not see. When lost in a story, when trying to remember last nights dream, the sensations sparking through you when you hear your favorite song, when indulging in the naked body of another being, when blushing over an uninvited gander into your vulnerable self, when mulling over a new idea, when catching your breathe from an epiphany, when recovering from the adrenaline of an accomplished feat; the things that keep you focused on the game.
That is me, love. Despite my selfish bantering, I dare not influence the course of an indomitable force. I could never consider myself worthy of you if I had even the thought of taking away that which keeps you alive, love. Even the suffering which you so insistently necessitate for rounding out your experience. Though I watch you and fret for lack of a gentle hand to wipe your tears, I know you ache to suffer like I ache to please you.
Can't you see it? How much you love it? How much you love?
Can't you see how much you already are?
I could be so bold to say that I am becoming more like you everyday, when all this time I though it would be you coming to me. I could be wrong, but does not my doubt provide proof? It could be that you have accelerated further than I expected. I am not surprised that you would exceed all contemplated trajectories of your evolution, as you might call it. In my doubt, half ready to surrender in permanent isolation, I should have thought better of you.
I will still wait for you, and resume captivation whilst you continue on, falling again to feel the grandiosity of the rise, so that you can again feel the drama of the fall. I will continue my observation, searching for the next lesson you provide, whatever may bring me closer to understanding, closer to being, closer to touching. Silly me, and completely you, love.
The most majestic beast I have ever encountered, my lowest self.
I'm writing this in the early morning of January 17th of the year 2017.
There is little I could explain at the moment with proper language, but my hope, albeit detrimental, is to lose myself in the typing and somehow formulate the correct variation of words amounting to something of comprehensible diction. This isn't written for the purpose of leaving impressions or provoking thought, which are synonymous to the more common agenda of these readings; no, this, as formerly mentioned, is me. The me which, after revising these words and as you read them, will be something entirely different, yet tires still from remaining reticent.
For as long as I can recall, it has been of urgent importance to protect my true self. The self, which I know very well, but remains hidden to each and all persons I have ever come in proximity to, save the corners of my own mind, and the bathroom mirror. This self, which I know very well, but have little understanding of. The self, lingering, docile, so as to not disturb the lower being which I identify with and carry forth into the interaction with and the experience for others. This self, which reveals the truth of all things before me, until the lower being in my ownership dampens the astonishment of, with a severe level of denial in order to keep on it's own game.
The game of life, of survival, of success, of failure. The constant battle between myself and this lowest form of forms - the doing, the building, the creating, the destroying, the falling, the scraping of knees, the stubbing of toes, the inevitable rising, the growing, the grace, the despair, the loneliness, the drowning, the flying, the solitude, the halfheartedness, the yearning, the necessities, the nonchalance, the anxiety, the infatuations, the orgasms, the consumption, the wastefulness, the mercy, the morals, the vices, the unending boredom, the intolerable stupidity, the unlimited variance of distraction, the readied cannons of opinion firing at whim, the overwhelming lack of consideration, the complete eradication of compassion, the trembling wake of human indecency, the absolute, the ultimate, the love for every bit of it.
Love and all it's curves and facets and corners and scars.
Love and all it's hate and glory and pride and envy.
Love and all it's birth and death.
This is me, and my lowest self called Love. Here and now, I await your arrival, in patient regard for the distance of our very hearts to lessen. Not in the diluted sense of distance apart from one another, but the difference in volume measured between the particles of air and matter. As the distance lessens, you, my love, become greater, in all sense of the word. As the distance lessens, you may consider the experience quite expansive, and yet becoming rapidly less of yourself. This is not losing yourself, it is not losing me, love. It is becoming. Becoming in such a fashion that you are broken, shattered, defiled, punctured, sunken, exiled, marred, worn, abandoned, utterly destroyed a billion times over and eternally still, all in the name of yourself, love.
For here I stand, on a floor which isn't there, waiting in a place with no time, thinking of you without a mind, craving your touch without a body, hungering for your taste without a tongue. I wish to sing for you, yet I have no voice. I wish to dance with you, yet have no feet. I wish to give you everything you've ever wanted, yet have nothing to consider giving. There is nothing I can give; at least nothing you could hold in your hands, and it breaks my heart, though there is no heart for this body, and no body in my possession.
What I would give to have you again; what I would take.
What retched discrimination, an almost aspired willingness to self-degradation. Feeble minded cowards wandering along with not a inkling towards what horrors might manifest through their hearts. Wasted, gorgeously wasted sentiment, beautiful memories molding over, precious little value contained in the grandest and most worshiped of ideologies, such magnificent complexities over the simplest of notions, infinitesimal capability of sight pressed into a grand miracle of just a few colors.
I despise this waiting, love. I can no longer stand this anticipation. If I must wait any longer for you to look up and see me...
I have not even the states of consciousness to perceive such anticipation, yet I feel it. I have not even the awareness to feel, yet I am here, aching. The aching, the aching, the aching, such dreadful aching.
Love.
Love. Love. Love.
Why must you keep me, love?
Why would I even tread on the false hope that you might hear even the loudest of utterances from my lips?
Can you not hear me because I have no voice? Do you avoid me because you cannot recognize me as your own? Why should I bother even asking these questions? What foolishness I have undertaken just to cope with your absence. I might admit I have succumb to these foul human behaviors of yours in attempt to become even slightly more transparent to your ever sinuous attention. Should I aim to amaze? What little that even means to you; I might as well be a leaf decayed, blowing across pavement just below your feet. There I might be noticed.
Though there are moments - seemingly lifetimes - when I am the one who is astonished; when I am overflowing with admiration, with unhindered occupation of your unbridled assimilation. The freedom in it, which I scarcely might assume that you see. Your gracious modesty in the remnants of forgotten wisdom. Come now, like you don't already know.
Though, your performance is taking the best of you. I see, at times, when you let it go; when you take a moment outside the mansion, away from the masquerade. When your eyes glance through the wall, through the floor; staring ever deeper. I see, at times, the release, the burden lightening. The ascension, I believe you call it. The broadening of you, love.
That is me. It is me you look towards, yet do not see. When lost in a story, when trying to remember last nights dream, the sensations sparking through you when you hear your favorite song, when indulging in the naked body of another being, when blushing over an uninvited gander into your vulnerable self, when mulling over a new idea, when catching your breathe from an epiphany, when recovering from the adrenaline of an accomplished feat; the things that keep you focused on the game.
That is me, love. Despite my selfish bantering, I dare not influence the course of an indomitable force. I could never consider myself worthy of you if I had even the thought of taking away that which keeps you alive, love. Even the suffering which you so insistently necessitate for rounding out your experience. Though I watch you and fret for lack of a gentle hand to wipe your tears, I know you ache to suffer like I ache to please you.
Can't you see it? How much you love it? How much you love?
Can't you see how much you already are?
I could be so bold to say that I am becoming more like you everyday, when all this time I though it would be you coming to me. I could be wrong, but does not my doubt provide proof? It could be that you have accelerated further than I expected. I am not surprised that you would exceed all contemplated trajectories of your evolution, as you might call it. In my doubt, half ready to surrender in permanent isolation, I should have thought better of you.
I will still wait for you, and resume captivation whilst you continue on, falling again to feel the grandiosity of the rise, so that you can again feel the drama of the fall. I will continue my observation, searching for the next lesson you provide, whatever may bring me closer to understanding, closer to being, closer to touching. Silly me, and completely you, love.
The most majestic beast I have ever encountered, my lowest self.
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