JourneyManJoly

The Sun impregnated the Earth with its photonic sperm; we are all their children.

sixtyseven

I continue to successfully delay the onset of adulthood. The eager world claws at every rough edge of my being, as I shed the points of attachment instantly. With such a resultant smooth surface, very little can cling to me. Loneliness exemplified and further fuelled by pride. Tragedy or victory?
And I look at my family, becoming conscious of my growing dependency. Nothing happens to me anymore, though things still do happen to us, in particular the youngest member. The joy I feel when I look at him is overshadowed by the dread of my realizing my own failure thus far. Socially illiterate and somehow proud of it, as if this mighty defense prevents my staying and growing where nourishment of all kinds is waiting in supply. Sure I can leave and go and grow someplace else, but as I am older, it is not into the unknown, the wistful destination of youth, it is to things I’ve seen and places I’ve already been before, and yes, the people, who might remember me, and be thankful for my return. But once I get there, I fall into the same old habits that allow my inevitable leave. Always in transition, and never somewhere forever. I keep on telling myself things will be different, but I’ll just be the same person in a different place, surrounded by different people. There were many chances for me out there, and I shrugged them all off because I had begun to identify with my isolation. Unconsciously sabotaging even the hint of interpersonal developement. The reasons were so justified in my mind while I was shoving these people away, but in hindsight, I don’t know how I could ever look at these people ever again, though I must try. To make friends with those who are already my friends in different realities, just a step away in my own mind. Feeling close to strangers, as if I’ve known them forever, and scaring them when this connection becomes apparent. Holding the floodgates closed in front of the wealth and bounty of my person, lest the torrent wash away the feedble swamps of people below. Grandioise talk from friendless man. A breif respite as I write, long ago I might elaborate on these complex emotions. but now, these seem crystaline, and complete, short and sweet.
Dear God, we are eternally grateful for all You give, so that we may grow. Thank You Lord, for the present, which we hold happily and dutifully within our hands. Thank You forever, for the future, which is Yours alone to create, and ours to play Your chosen roles within. Thank You especially, to the Guardians and Godians, whom You have sent to conduct Your will directly to us. Thank You, for all You take, so that we may grow to live with less. We Love You God, as we love all You have created within and without. Together we are one, may Your will be done. Amen.

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sixtysix

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┬álack thereof, of objectivity, we can unite the passion of expression with the glory of creation. We just have to remove ourselves from the picture.