Journal Entry from March 28 2011

The birds of tumult flung their slow strung lyres at us in despair writhing in agony as they hurled their offspring from atop the tree tops in disgust and unthinking malice that comes back as an apparition that does not slumber. This mission of ours has not seen the light of day entrenched as we are in this mire of misery. We ask who, pointing the finger or giving the finger, hoping for an easy escape. Does that not miss the point of our reckonings, however? WHO. Though it may seem pertinent and may perhaps lead us to our other shore, it oftentimes entrances us and entraps us in its infinite regurgitations of the logicians of the ages. If only we can go where Ludwig beckons, beyond what can and cannot be said, ensnared as we are by the unflinching referral to the word. And grammar, in which there is always subject and object, necessarily two. WHO! Is there anybody home? Oh, the paradox of using words to go beyond words. There’s always a sayer and a hearer. Always a thinker and a thought. Doer and deed. Consciousness and brains. A way and a wayfarer. But in our moments of mystery we come to shed our minds of this excruciating duality and melt into union with the cosmos, only to be wrought back into our loneliness and boredom. Ripped apart. Torn to bits and pieces. This life is a struggle, not for world or worldly things as you may like to see it, but for deliverance from world and worldly things, though you may not like to admit it. What wickedness keeps us chained here dragging our burden with us every which way we walk? When will we arrive at the blessed peak of the mountain of doom in which to deposit this ring that binds us in the darkness and to rid ourselves of ourselves? A day will come when you will learn the error of your ways, innocent though thou seest thyself. My talk may fall on deaf ears as the world appears to blind eyes for some time longer, but all is impermanent. That is the rule in this world of ever changing shades of colors that spin eternal. Not a moment of rest are we the wicked granted. We carry our boulders up an infinite hill, towards an unachievable goal, until we drop boulder and goal alike and dissolve into the very marrow of reality. Stop your ceaseless drumming on the walls of this edifice and deal it a deadly singular blow to crumble the whole thing back to the origins. The initial moment of error spawned generations upon generations of ignorant masses, a thousand million forests of oak from a single acorn. Ask yourself: what is this restless generation rushing towards but its own fiery demise? Why multiply an already over-inflamed and throbbing wound? Why pour more acid down the throats of skeletons long reduced to ashes in the winds? And the worst part is the pretense, the show, the theatrics, the lies, the front, the acting like everything is precisely as it should be, while storms of agony rage everlasting within. Otherwise, we complain and make a big fuss and hope to impress with our unique ways of berating for the cathartic purge it provides, detached as we are from the truth within. We all yearn for the truth, in our own ways, whether we are aware of it or not, and whether we would like to admit it or not. And we are all called upon to fulfill our noble destiny, a call so terribly few heed and even less follow through with. But events conspire to bring us face to face with it again and again, across countless lives as we respawn upon this cursed existence, until our task is accomplished, our holy mission followed through with until its end, our sins redeemed, our ignorance expunged, our flames extinguished, our passions annulled, our cravings uprooted, our disease cured, our agony absolved, and our salvation achieved. The interesting thing to realize is that all this is already done; we are simple living in the nightmare realm of the ONE BEING that has already realized the truth. And this nightmare is endless, as the countless suffering egos are plucked out one by one into reunion with their essence, which they have always been in. Paradoxical is our existence if understood in this way. But paradox is at the heart of that sublime moment of mystery. A colossal feeling of unknowableness washes over one who is riding the apex of this moment. Yet while unknowable, it is also relieving and releases from much of the misery of independent existence. Being enfolded by the Supreme is the relinquishing of my independent identity and realizing its pettiness and insignificance in the grand scheme of things, yet also recognizing that its source is that Supreme One that is at the heart of all things. Let the path to wakefulness be blessedly short and simple, yet I will not complain if it is long and arduous as I expect it and am prepared for it to be. My yearning is strong and grows daily and my actions shall reflect this longing, that which drives the river to the sea, the eagle to the mountaintop, and the nebula to the star. May my nebulous and scattered existence settle and condense into the tranquil single point at the center, where fusion begins, that nuclear reaction that will transform the sleepers into the Buddhas. 

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