I wish for the days of a new one every few where the moon was constantly honey. I wish for the days where I did not care. But here I am, loving and caring more than ever about you.
What do you think of Free Will?
Its an illusion of the ego and only enforces the idea of your separateness from the divine.
No, I meant the book, by Riley Dyson.
Oh, not bad, honest, easy to finish.
We dance surrounded by those on acid and the man sings as if we are close to nirvana with our dry mouths and an ounce of hope. The way she moves is a paradox with all those brains willing to surrender and I hold her hands and then her lower back as the rum comes in steel cups with a floating lime. Then an Indian man runs towards us with his hands telling us to separate. I say, “You can beat your wife, I'm allowed to dance with mine.” And I sit down and wait for a large rock to erupt my skull and I venture into my imagination and think about holding his hair as I rearrange his face and constantly I'm reminded how much my mind and time control me like sweet leaves and a biscuit meters from an elephant.
It is hard being in love with someone. It is hard having a mirror of honestly. It is so lovely to feel and so stirring to see. And I wish for the days of a new one every few where the moon was constantly honey. I wish for the days where I did not care. But here I am, loving and caring more than ever about you. I'm trying to surrender to god but I don’t have anything left to surrender with all the vices, all the currents that have me. And please babe, don’t be a lizard, don’t be an illusion, just the cleaner of my padded cell where I murmur words in my made up world and pretend I'm free. Please be the heart also, please be the soft wrinkly palm leading us both somewhere real.
Can I become an instrument of god, can the words falling on to the page be my destiny, my predestination, his grace? I made up god, my mind made up god, to get what I wanted. And I used the three letter word that has more meanings than meaning as I begged for someone else to write my book. As I tried to trick the omnipotent to reward me with success for falling into arms that I created. Then after three months of the book being published, without the twenty thousand subscribers and fifty thousand copies sold, I realised my mind no longer used that word. And we don’t believe in god as we sit beside the running rivers with a child’s laugh bouncing around our ears because he doesn’t abide to our commands. Now he is coming back. He. Words cannot express because this is also the expression of the mind. An illusion within the truth. And every single word is not mine. God is not a man nor a woman but pure consciousness. consciousness created me, created everything, therefore god is me but I am not yet god. Not with all my fog. My smoke. My haze. Once I stopped wanting I got more than I could ever imagine. Once I stopped trying I became someone I could never think of. Me, right now, writing, does not know what will come, but my efforts to see what is are enough. My resistance is chiselling. My vision is humbling. My medium is life. Happy art may be bad art, but this is mine. I am falling through the currents of all. In the pools of beer I swim and land next to the sober on the island where they tell me how bad the world is. How arrogant they are to think they’re separate from it, that their enthusiasm to change is also the cause. The labels. The women hate men for how much they depend on them. The men hate themselves because they don’t know themselves. Or worse, they love themselves. They love their egos. I love my ego. I love me. I am scared to die but the unreal never lived. The real will never die. God and I are in an open relationship as I rest within the sweet spot. Not enough suffering to suffer. Not enough suffering to change. I tell them that and they say that I am trying to convince myself, and I say that is your mind not mine. God has a million names; the heart, intuition, the universe, all we can do is have a look and see where that overused word resides. You don’t have to believe nor preach but to have a look and see. Have a look and see. Stop being so occupied with what you think you know and you might just see what is. You might just get to know yourself. You might just get to know everything. Or realise you know nothing. But who knows nothing? Me.
See these words as a splatter of blood from a mouth of an ego with a knife of divinity buried deep within its fabricated heart.
The weaker I am the more I need you,
the stronger I am the more I love you.
Before I did anything good for myself I had to love myself,
to love myself I had to know myself,
to know myself I had to lose myself.
Psychosis and enlightenment share a highway. One just trusts the driver. One has the radio off. I hope there are no booze buses on my path to enlightenment.
My biggest question was always why? If it is all bliss then why don’t you want to come back?
Then I realised they never leave, never arrive.
Writing aids the path then comes counter intuitive. Words are an expression of the ego. Spilling from a bubbling mind. To write freely you have to admit you don’t know and if you don’t know then why write? Then you spend a few days with a group, then you spend dinner with others, a lifetime with others. With their false notions and strong convictions. You become restricted by the hypocritical nuances of society. They’re allowed to do it but you're not allowed to say it. You feel as if you are walking slow to be kind to the group. You lose concentration and hurt yourself. You lose meaning. You lose. For long enough your characters can agree to stay silent, to let the jokes go by, to accept all of energies manifestations. Your logic and intellect tire and the drink puts the security guard to sleep and you burst into the world and all those you have endured have no interest in enduring you. So, once again, although I don’t know, I return to the blank white page because she is the only one that understands that I don’t. It isn’t that serious, it just keeps me sane having a vast desert of nothing where I can let my mind run like a couped up dog, where I can lose my mind, where I can go insane, where I can let the blouse reveal the breast of a drunken whore.
I trust my driver, it just isn’t you.
