January 2, 2020
What the fuck does that even mean. I am lying down on an uncomfortable bed reflecting back on one of the most intense and powerful years of my life. I cannot bring myself to capitalize on the flow of thought as words are written without active thinking. I am merely a machine of consciousness spreading its diction through typed discourse debating whether life is as black as the Joker suggests or as bright as the sunlit sky. In fact, the extremities of either do not even compare to the non-dualistic reality of the latter. There is no black and white, or grey, there is One. The whole piece stringed together by the infinite complexity which perplexes the human soul in moral conjuncture with the dilemma of dualism in freedom. For what do I mean by this apparent dualism? My words and thoughts may not clearly express that which I am trying to communicate clearly and the lack of intention lets flow a stream of conscious thought which builds upon itself in tangent to the truth of my experience. I have a sense of wonder and a deliberate ego-driven desire to be heard. To ignite a flame which quenches the thirst of those most dear to me — humanity. I wish to change the world, even if it only happens through changing myself. I would die for humanity. I would die for truth. I am repressing the idea that maybe I don’t believe that but my heart tells me that in a future time when experience has granted me the wisdom to awaken I would understand that my role in this life is none other than to be free of my bindings and to aid humanity in escaping its chains as well. I seek to eradicate lies from my heart, and purify the waters so clearly that the transparency and stillness of them would allow one to look into the infinite.
I am merely and instrument created for a purpose driven by a divine grace which I struggle to find and yet have been stroked by ever so gently that I will never forget its warm touch. My metaphors lack conviction and my words fall only half true. I feel afraid to bleed on the typewriter for lack of understanding and the demise of my image. I have done things which although I don’t regret I know could hurt those around me more than I ever wished. That part of me is dead… and yet it has been reborn into the most beautiful flower ever imaginable. I have experienced the limitless bounds of my devil and am yet to reap the bountiful fruits of the angelic divinity which calls to me from yonder the sun. I do not regret anything I have done and it is hard to describe the feelings which plague my young and foolish heart. I have been what I hate the most. The word hate implies the strongest of emotions and I am aware of the conviction which I have set for myself in times past. I still struggle to maintain a level head even after having been to hell and back. I do not mean this figuratively but literally having experienced a passage into the gates of hell where I confronted my shadow in its great repression and frustration. I used to believe that my shadow was a beast which I must slay. Yet the longer I fought with it the stronger it became. So much so that at a moment in time the terror of my own self outweighed the hope for light which had consumed itself in darkness. Fear not for my words are dreary and cold, yet the light shines through them with the honesty of one who is presently loving the darkest most luminous shadow one can possibly imagine. I am not afraid to write this. But it is the fear to express in detail the wrongful sins which I have committed which strikes me with terror. I am not punishing myself anymore for although I have been a devil before, I have allowed that part of me to die and be reborn into a flower whose thorns make one bleed with the love of sorrow and remembrance. I mean, “there is a fire which consumes me, but I am also that fire (Borges).”
I love the world, I am love, God is love, and my words do not give justice to anything which even briefly mentions Gods name. One can’t speak God. I should stop typing God for the sake of further confusion but I feel that a desire to at least address the idea that what I write, and when I write God, is only a fractal reflection of Gods infinite image.
I think I am done writing for now, and I am sure there are a million more words to say before I finish describing my life. As if I were writing for someone and not for myself, again the ego strikes me with the wish to be heard. As if when I die I want to be remembered one way or another.
If one is not remembered did they ever really exist?
What the fuck am I saying. This entry feels like a dagger to the heart and not the revival of another year of misery and bliss. For they are the same. I have felt them both equally, and have experienced them outside of myself. Subjectively they are different experiences, but in one way or another they go full circle into the being of ONENESS.
GOD asked once, who am I? the answer is the infinite experience of the infinite self.
Even that is not true though for I have tainted it with thought and words. Yet the idea remains enough to make one think of what nonduality really means. Love and love and love again. The most twisted kind of love. The most radical form of love. The all-inclusive everchanging, radical form of love which requires itself in order to be aware of itself.
I love you.