Trapped: In the Circle of Linear Thought
Most remember times they do right and forget the times they do wrong. In contrast, highlighted are the times I do wrong and rehashed the ‘wrong doings.’ In so living, I still remember the ‘right,’ if such thing liveth. Though it be set in the backseat, akin to groceries packed and secured in ice. Forgotten at the moment, and recollected later, as required, whilst I am thinking three times at once: thrice slicing and dicing while producing multiple viewpoints and conclusions.
Absent, it seems, is the built-in protective ego-mechanism in which I selectively choose to remember events that highlight my ‘specialness;’ and following through, gone is the relief that is birthed if extracting my own wrongdoings and focusing primarily on the wrongdoings of another. In that I am not monopolized with the act of setting about to justify my own self and self-actions, instead I attempt to reason through my behaviors and find answers to the motivation behind my ways.
Thusly, during any encounter with another, I am set apart without choice; very much trapped in an arena of self-accountability to the extreme, a place in which I become cluttered with thoughts of what is right, what is wrong, and where and how blame is to be formed. Included in my reasoning, are the ins and outs of analysis itself, and how analysis is reflected within the scope of self-involvement.
I theorize, again, in a kaleidoscope of viewpoints, each brought on through experience, and seen in visuals, if in fact the act of self-analysis in form is not a substitute for the standard-process of hyper-focusing on the right of a person’s ways. And that in lieu of latching on to my rightness for a sense of worth and place in the world, that instead I focus on my exactness: the cornerstone of how and why I exist.
In this case, I worry some, anxiety creeping in, that indeed my thinking process alone, I have created my own prison of ego-bidding.
Wherein some use mechanisms of denial and rationalization to escape the reality of a situation; I instead highlight the denial and rationalization of my day-to-day encounters. I see to the core of motivation and expectations, and cannot live a day with blinders set upon. I dare say, even a moment does not go by without the harshness of reality.
Moreover, I am randomly subjected by the inner-workings of my mind, and to the complex review of if and when I might have not seen something as factual and actual. This leads to a downward spiral of analysis, in which I am not certain what is rational, what is truth, and what is reality.
As I know enough about philosophy and similar genres of supposed truth-seeking, through the love of knowledge, I recognize I continue to know less and less. This is what happens, as I face self and analyze self, with cautious discernment teetering away from the demeaning cape of judgment—I step away and attempt to scrape up that which is the noise of masks and cluttered confusion found in the camp of denial and rationalization, and stare whole-heartedly into the chattering rawness of what is formulated to be my momentary truth.
In this viewing I sink into a variant amount of self-inflicted sap, sticking to the corners of reason, whilst trying to grasp at something deemed ‘acceptable’ by the collective mass of consciousness. I waver here, between two spaces. To the right, the place of how others’ serve to escape the rawness of truth, and, to the left, the place of sinking confusing; in which, without roadmap, or such, I am forced to wander about, mind skipping, as body and soul appear trapped.
Wherein many cannot readily see their own feelings of pride and jealously, I see. I recognize stinging needles with the coming of pride, jealousy, and the rightful mate: envy. I feel fully. Enveloped, I can barely focus or breathe, on breath alone. The whole of me concaved and piled inward with an ‘uncomfortableness’ liken to a heavy weight inverted and pressing from the inside out. I am not able, or granted by some force—be it biological or so-called ‘spiritual’—to escape the feelings without first overcoming the sense of foreboding pain.
I am therefore pushed out of this state of being, in seeing the green of me, and placed outside self, made as analyzing fool whilst recognizing the entrapment of self.
Ego is boundless in his efforts of demise. Even the word ‘demise’ itself, when recognized in thought, before spoken, gives power to the form of nothingness made real. In this way I cannot understand how, in recollection, there were times I held onto pride. For now it is a poisonous, venomous solace that serves as false sense of escape from truth, and in so doing buries the reality of self-responsibility.
Wherein many subconsciously are attracted to and repelled by various elements in their environment, whether it be the liner parade of humans, or the sights and sounds of reality all about, I am rendered much awake and aware of my surroundings. Repeatedly, nothing is pushed beneath where I walk, least the remnants and surplus of the walls about me. What is made ready, and on display, I take. Capturing all that is about while wondering when the process will cease.
I am a fumbling “Intaker” of life. My proverbial cross to bear, seemingly, the net in which I harbor the excess of experience. And my sensory-system, complex in its making and undertaking, does not cease until the level of exhaustion is met. Once satisfied with the coming of sleep, there, too, in the dream-state, I enter yet another world in which all presented is masked in various amounts of blundered-bombardment.
I cannot exist without the coming of more and more. I cannot reason without the coming of an endless stream. My only reprieve found in the nothingness of thought and experience, a place so intangible that the wanting to get there itself both soothes and bears down on my soul-light.
Wherein memories, moods, recollections, daydreams, and the like pop up in the lives of all, and differing degrees of depression and anxiety render themselves as servant and slave-master to the wanderer, for self, and self alone, these emerging visitors, rising from the depths of experience, become subjects for further analysis.
I am not merely living at the singular dimensional-level. I am experiencing that which is beyond experience. And instead of finding refuge in the past, or the vision, or what could or what could not be, I am escaping simultaneously, or more so entrapped once more, in a land in which I am bearing down upon myself to find the remedy to the visitors: the cause and the solution interwoven.
I am scientist analyzing the remedy that could theoretically serve as salve or vacation from thought. I am countering self’s inflictions. I am figuring out, with casualness undone, a trumpeting of leads that might serve as my reprieve of mind’s process.
I am, in reality, trying to determine the makings of my own mind. Attempting to outreach the circumference of my reasoning and pull out of the circle of mind into the outer regions unknown to the common man: the region of thought that rests outside that which birthed the nations, the world, and the universe.
It is ‘within’ this area, outside linear thought, in which something that is ‘else,’ surrounds the something that is‘ is.’ It is the end and beginning of the numbers. It is the unsolvable.
And here I lay, in between again, where I ought to be, when listening to the masses’ call, and where I am, lost, when listening to the calling beyond. Here is where I rest my head, on the pillow of exhaustive recognition, my cheek pressed against the resilience of mankind, harboring the degrees of resistance, pain, and bitter-truths.
Wherein there exists a deemed ‘autonomic self’ beneath conscious awareness that remains silent in moments, in varying ways, my self that automates and appears, visits more frequently than the lot. In so that he rises in almost every dealing and with every breath. He aware of me and I of him.
There is no undoing him, as there is no undoing the parts of self. Each is a collective, and each is a part of the whole. And each, of us gathered, makes no assumptions of the other. None are wise. None innocent. None beckoned for calling or purpose, but each a collaboration of what has been and what is to come. All wrapped in an eternal giving and forgiving, a forging through the explosive nature of reality.
The assumptions of self are blundered, and laid to rest with the other unmaskings. All self-serving bias eradicated and taken out with the bath water. And as the human, too, we are erected in our behavior, made right in our action, as we sense we are being watched and observed.
For us, on the gathering path, we are always under the eyes of the mighty collective, and in this way the actions of the right or dubious and rectified further. For we cannot escape into that which is unjust, as the eyes of the all have settled upon us, consciously mimicking the moves of the union. And indeed, the pressure remains, to undo the awakening, and slither, as legless-rodent, back to the scope of our safe haven, where the blind scamper along as sheep branded for slaughter.
Belly of a Star 