Objectivity, in the artists’ pursuit of such, renders him less a man, more a god. It is our very skin, our very eyes and the dirt our sweat picks up which impedes our truest perception of the universe. Any man who wishes to see beyond the horizon of human perception, must indeed, leave that humanity behind. We rip ourselves from what we know, from what we love, from what we hate. The pain of separation consumes us for a time, and will always in memory. When a cosmic individual is birthed from their host planet, there’s a lot of gravity to fight. All manner of human endeavour will detract us from our goal. So much that whispers in our ear, beckoning the looking over our shoulder. Just what are we leaving behind? What memories of times passed and potential futures void of our physical presence evaporate as we leave? In pursuit of objectivity, we as the subject must be destroyed. Imagine the embodiment of nothing in the flesh. These empty shells of humans, their minds aflutter in the sky, navel-gazing as it were. Wastes of breath. For one so intent on leaving this world behind has absolutely no intention on making it better before they do so. Has every generation that this civilization created added up to hoards of earthly spirits uprooting themselves towards transcending? Oblivion. What’s up there in the stars, why the very question is consuming. Something bigger might eat us, consume all we could have contributed towards our host, the lovely mother, unconditionally loving as she is. We face greater challenges beyond this earthly cradle should we decide to leave it. The worst would be the second-guessing. I mean who’s to say that once we live and die down here, that any adventurous journey amoung the stars we have up there, would be but a figment of imagination to distract us from the terrifying reality of our death, of our complete non-existence. The hint of possibility in the back of our figurative mind that this is not real, this fantasy of ours. Why, looking over our shoulder at this level of vibration would entice instant annihilation. Things happen quicker up there, more stuff in less time. It’s almost a prerequisite to be stubborn. Imposing your belief of the universe upon itself, and in so creating your own. And this doesn’t sound so different from what’s already down here. It’s just happening slower. We can manifest ideas into the physical by continually thinking them, and working them into reality, one step at a time. And for the evolving individual, the possibility of living in a dream is always present. Life’s little encouraging synchronicities have become so frequent in my life as to almost completely lose their significance. I must remember to be grateful for them, for I can vividly recall a much longer time in my life when synchronicity as I know it today was not present. Or, maybe it was always there, only now, I am attuned to notice it when it happens.
The idea of reincarnating and being raised again feels so redundant. It feels like giving up, to have come so far and so early in this lifetime, to only have to take the chance that it might happen again, and that I might get further. Surrender, so alien to my stubborn nature, that which I have deluded myself into thinking it will self-perpetuate my spirit into eternity. Surrender, i might just have to, when the chips are down, and I’m face-to-face with my higher self, the one who calls the shots, and they tell me I’ve got a few more lifetimes to live lined up. What do I say to that. Are they me? Can I trust them? I disagree, I voice this, I run. I live my fantasy in the stars, wandering and gorging upon the natural beauty of the cosmos, nothing incarnate. All the while, the self I leave behind, remains on Earth, to live out this next lifetime. I have become a pointless tangent from my existential path. But hey, it sure is easy to get back when all you have to do is think your way over there.
I’m diving into the words again. There’s many of them once more. There’s so many. I’ve been drowning in them, refining them, simplifying them, confusing them for conversational matters. Sharing, hearing external iterations on the thoughts. They are not mind. I am listening to a distant voice that always speaks to me. It’s more real to me than this world. I am very weary, careful, or this world and its symbols. There is so much meaning inside every little thing. Reading into it all is as exhausting as it is necessary. Who else is going to do it?
This is the first slew of many more to come this year, getting into the right head space to channel this vital information. Whome it will help, I don’t know. The only real person it needs to help is me. I find solace int he delusion that this work matters, that it’s something bigger than myself. Beyond the mundane activities that held me back for so long, binges of self-destruction, to truly know the difference between it and creation. It served its purpose, I must mine. The good news is that I;ve still young enough to take a good stab at completing this life’s work, having realized it. Extending my presence beyond this body beyond this mind. Creating things, leaving them behind, for interpretation, for musings, for embellishment, for others. When has the intrinsic urge to create translated so seamlessly to the extrinsic instinct to share. How can you do something for yourself, while simultaneously doing it for others? By removing the subject. Through the lens, more lack thereof, of objectivity, we can unite the passion of expression with the glory of creation. We just have to remove ourselves from the picture.