Words and ideas, they opine in my head. Flowing, but not like water rushing over the fall’s edge, cascading into the air as a great, white, billowing mist. No. These days, the words and ideas seem to move about like flotsam, forgotten: trash that’s become lost to the pointless swirl of an eddy. Relegated to follow itself, to lead itself nowhere, round and round, until time, until circumstance dries it up, leaving only the dusty, dirt-speckled residue of what had ceased to be, long before the moisture of its body had left it.
And lo, I am now faced with an opportunity to pick myself up, to gather these words and ideas, this garbage, my wreckage, and to toss it all–everything, toward those turbulent waves. To drown, to swim away into the blackness; to be, or to become overwhelmed, beyond hope, and to then walk the ocean floor, reluctantly waiting for the sun to envelop the Earth, to boil off this weight above my head, and to turn me to the same ash as everyone and everything that I have known, here on this place in space and time we call home.
And I may do this. I may do it with no good reason beyond depression.
Hmm, and if I do find myself and my weightless, empty thoughts dashed upon the rocks below, well, that wouldn’t be the end, either. For, being so-destroyed would be another such eddy, only, one less familiar, far less comfortable. And so, given my fall, I could just do it again, and again, and again, until I have either succeeded, or until my life and/or opportunities in life have expired.
Time. Time is finite. Life, is worthwhile, certainly if you’re already in it, and you’ve not found yourself immediately aware of the horrors capable of the human animal and his human animal civilization.
Open your eyes, and you may find yourself suckling at the bosom of one who loves and cares for you. Blink, and now there are worms suckling at you, beneath a pile of your brethren, atop countless generations of that same life that lives on in the near-to-infinite variations.
This blink. This time between lives, we feel that it is something like the length of the life that we presently lead. Oh, the life that I presently have is good, and therefore I may enjoy this good life for some eighty years, at which point I may roll the dice, once more, hoping to get a life as good as I now enjoy.
I’m afraid to tell you –mainly, because I have spent years writing a book on the subject, a book I doubt that I have the heart to finish without assistance, the help of a trusted adviser, likely a Buddhist — that this blink of a lifetime, it is an illusion.
What I mean to say, and perhaps I won’t here describe it (lest I fear that my words are too imprecise, concerning something that is paramount to my intellectual, heartfelt existence), is that all existences, all existence everywhere, all of it, all of you, each of us, myself, your dog, the little bugs on your face, what animated, living things that live upon them, all of you are a single existence. That existence, this universal existence is you. Rather, more precisely, it is You. Call it us, call it we, call it God or the Cosmos.
You do not experience your life after the last life, before the next life. Rather, you experience everything, all of the time, all at once, everywhere.
The only reason why you are not aware of this, is because your intellect, that which may grasp this idea, is essentially extraneous additions upon the more basic animal constitution, and that animal that you indelibly are, it simply must survive, and because of the way this place, the cosmos, this universe, at least this apparently physical instantiation of it is structured, one body can (under normal circumstances) only know itself and the world through that single intimate lens of awareness.
If the animal body was aware of the oneness of everything, as the intellect can ascend to, then, I imagine we would be something more like the ant, or, perhaps the bee. The individual would be lost, and to that, our quality of life; indeed, life itself, as we know it.
I am meandering, dangerously, with these words. Like a painter, rather, like a “painter” who looks at his easel with reproach, with a disgust that hurts his being, like a “lover” who never speaks to his love. Is such a person a lover, or are they simply deluded, perhaps they’re in love with the idea of being in love.
Yes, I put these words here, but am I a writer for doing so?
Have I put anything here, really, that hasn’t been said before by me, and/or is not pitiful navel gazing?
I doubt it.
But this is a step, a step toward a long, long journey that I had stopped taking steps toward.
Sometimes, your first step is a stumble.
Perhaps that’s what this is.
I certainly hope so.