I am, I exist, the world is, the world exists

Aged around three I gazed at my hand and thought ‘I can’t believe I am actually here! I can’t believe this is real and I exist!’

I remember it distinctly. I recognized myself, and the stupendous odds of my ever having incarnated.

It took twenty seven years, but just this week it truly hit me that the world actually is, and the world actually fucking exists. It actually is, it really is, it moves through time, it is. I can’t believe it is actually there, its incredible! The stupendous odds of it.

Strange things happen in this universe.

 

 

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The inevitable beautiful, the ocean’s will

All of the beautiful things I will make

Cannot be destroyed

Only delayed.

You cannot stop one who knows

That to move forward is their choice

For the will of mortals is like that

Of the ocean

Forever beating against the shores of eternity

Driven on, on, wailing at mother moon.

I am a copse of brambles

Cut at me, I return

Thorned, clutching, birds nest in my bosom

I am ivy upon the oak

I am the course of the river

Slowly I wend through the world

Always I triumph

For there is no going back

To go back now is to die, to die

And I want to live

And I can always choose to live

Until Nature takes me back…

Narcissism

Narcissism is to make a complex labyrinth of yourself and cardboard cut outs of everybody else.

My pain, my desires, my needs, my justifications, my fears, my words.

This disease of the mind, in the politician means mass-terror, in the parent means domestic tyranny, in the artist means indulgent meaninglessness.

How insane our race must have become to manifest so many narcissists. How far down the rabbit hole our language and metaphysics has dragged us to spawn an entire culture of self-obsessives.

And it is a hopeless obsession. For the self, as much as anything else, cannot ever be wholly grasped. Turn within and you will find nothing there. That is why narcissism is a doomed quest to no-where, it has no object and no end point.

The void is the void is the void is the void is the void…

What I fear as psychosis, the snapping of emotional stability and the incapacity of thought, reveals what is a terror to my narcissistic, security-seeking ego.

Emptiness for all eternity.

The deeper you try to go into yourself the deeper yet you have to go, and deeper yet, until you find you roam in a long, futile circle (small insects navigating a large round table never realize the futility of  their energy-expenditure. Short-sighted human beings are no different). What is ‘depth’ truly, when all is wash on the surface of the storm in the cosmos that is generated life?

Futile or no, the obsession with the self is imprinted into us. Who would truly choose to evolve into something so decadent and selfish, when there is a world of constant flux to reach into and become into? I do not think people choose to become narcissists, only to maintain their sorry fate.

And it is hard to undo.

To self-destroy this lie of the ego is a painful process, a gap we must try to leap and deliberately fail, plummeting to face the cold truth of death and fleetingness, our only solace that this is the ultimate annihilator of human hubris, the equalizer that gives every tyrant, narcissist and abuser their due. Hard is it to believe that we can fully overcome the wretchedness of our inheritance. Human beings need something beyond themselves to be free, but this is not god.

The opposite of narcissism is annihilation…

Enchantment

Without enchantment, we are lost in the world. Without myth, guideless. Without spirit, we are dead inside. Without art, we are silent.

The world-as-it-is: not suitable for our primed imaginations. Stillness is just a reprieve, sleep a chance to dream. The vigour of endless Western minds; ceaseless, like the snout of an anteater. The world is layered with our mark.

Then let us do the best that we can do with our candor and sheer energy. Let us enchant nature and live there, among the wood sprites and the sacred trees. Let us catch that mana, let us fly these concrete prisons.

Profit is a road leading nowhere. But the deep wood and the bramble grove is an infinite, winding adventure…

Bestial

Bestial, something lurks inside. It wants to crawl along the ground, strength in its arms and legs. It wants its flesh to touch the earth, to source whatever power lurks there.

Bestial, it is the thing that is insulted when your toes are trodden on, your status diminished, your territory invaded. It pulses inside, waiting just beneath the surface of consciousness.

Bestial, it once charged at prey or fled predators. Now men are its predators, and the hate-filled abusive words are their javelins, and the pitiful look is the death-blow.

Bestial, it is an infinite well of courage. It is fearless; for fear exists only within one who wants an unnatural, painless time-span, but the bestial is at one with its suffering.

Bestial, it turns male heads to follow her walking. It longs to escape itself in the clutches of another, it is the fiery fuel for the raw deeds of carnal animals.

Bestial, it is far beyond notions of civility, good and evil. It is the vengeful pulse that wants to tear its enemies apart with fang and claw, a dark-furred savage of unmatched might.

Bestial, it is our primal dignity, and our undeniable nature. Human beings are animals, fooled into thinking themselves something more than the world around them; fooled into thinking they are worthy regents of the earth.

The bestial knows that is must work with the earth, not against it. The bestial knows that fellow animals and plants have as much a soul as any man. The bestial already knows the connectedness of all things and the true sanctity of life – to take it only in the direst circumstances.

I am bestial, a proud beast who walks, crawls, thrums, stares up at the moon, howls and sighs.

The Dreamland

We all ran away to the verdant dreamland

To put the grey juggernaut to our backs

And pitched up our yurts in the pleasant spring wind

Away from the sick sea of cars and people.

We gathered in unity around the may-pole

To forget the days trapped in comfortable boxes

And spoke of the future we would forge

Away from the dreamless, cynical, money machine
 

Something followed us along the path of our quest

Walking with slow, deliberate strides

Many months, weeks and days behind

Faceless and without beauty it came.

One night, as we slept, it slipped beside us

Like a terrible incubus, and when we woke

It was rattling there again, inside.
 

We all ran away to the verdant dreamland

But the concrete blocks followed us there

And the howls of abuse followed us there

And the scars in our souls followed us there.

Orphic Beast

An injection of self, a reflection of self

Orphic explosion, in this brain of mine

I touch the sky, my shaman-self lifted

To realize some kind, of undefined divine

My soul wants to soar, although some parts to plod

Among the grey citizens of order

Dull thumpers of the one, dull god

 

(And as I come to fear, the night, boredom

And my internal extremes, the hyper-brain

Says ‘enjoy this, though it ends in a crash

You were dead before, so live and fear not death’)

 

Somehow free of the hate that claims others

Oh those self-defined, self-refined prisons they create

Only to lament their loss and deny their place

In the ranks of bile, and spite and hate

Maybe to cloak themselves from the leviathan-machines

Which provides their plenty, as the global south screams

Their shit-eating hypocrisies, judgemental non-philosophies.

And I have landed among their pretention, problems hidden

Beneath the rug, the armoured iron carpet

That supports the weight of their bloated heads

And blood-drenched souls.