About the author of this article: Samantha Craft is the author of Everyday Aspergers. Ten Years in the making, Craft’s book is receiving positive reviews and support from professionals in the field of autism and autistic individuals. Craft is in touch with thousands of autistic individuals throughout the world. Her book is available on Amazon in soft back and as worldwide e-book in many countries.
The opinionated folk deems his self more worthy than the next, more educated, more correct, more substantiated in his tethered-viewings. He is the man who ties himself to his beliefs as marionette to the puppeteer. Surrendering his last performance for the making of a hopeful sequel.
He stands on the cornerstone of his own reality, perched on a soapbox made of rubbery-soles; erect in his being, creating hurts, as he plucks out the feathers from those deemed ‘wrong.’
He is the judge. And his seasoned-eyes seek out justice for self, and for self-proclaimed truths.
He creates chaos through the subconscious quest to establish an enemy in order to make himself the victor.
He seeks out that which is wrong to feed his own tattered ego.
The more he builds himself up, the more he merrily tears the others downward into spiraling nonsense.
He latches on to one truth, and then another, exchanging viewpoints to suit his individual needs. Adapting his ways to suit his desired outcome.
He eradicates plans and schemes, even as he sees this not as so.
He is blind to his own ways, and thinks himself clever and keen.
He has an eye for truth, and establishes his world as so. Truth begets truth and all else in dangerous makings of others’ minds.
He knows himself, inside and out, or so he thinketh . And in thinking in limited scope, he believes he sees the world about him endlessly.
He is the maker of mankind and the destroyer, and he sets himself on high while wearing a robe of futile-humility. Though, buried beneath the cloakings are the mere wobblings of brittle bones.
He erects flags of righteousness in his name.
He is the enemy of spirit, as he claims his views worthy and right.
He is the enemy of self, as he hides in the shadowed sands, head buried to the reality undone.
He builds and builds an illusion in order to feed and feed that which is established upon as self onto self.
He becomes that which he wishes, and has opinion for all that does not fit into his gently spawned parchment.
His arrows are as ink on treasure map, pointing thusly to where the answers rest.
He knows, and he knows naught, and in so doing he believes he is the wisest of wise.
He layers himself in the latherings of riches, sought in the grounds of others’ burdens.
He is neither miser of gold nor pauper of the trenches; instead he is both. Combined, as the one collecting and discarding. Scooping up in ‘veracious’ heaps that which serves his truth, and throwing out that which does not.
He cannot see his weary ways, and instead labels the rest unjust and wrong, except the select few that follow his way. His light shone bright in the ability to feasibly proclaim his truth as collective truth.
He is not satisfied unless others see him, others hear him, others lift him and validate his existence.
His way is made the only way. And the others, though innocent they be, gather around him as sucklings to his tainted nectar.
He nourishes them with lies—his own.
He lures them in with a sense of belonging. And then, too, they become as him: stagnant in their youth, nurturing nothing and no one, and taking as they please.
They satisfy self to please self. They play with self to please self. They collect and establish more truths.
Until the beggar returns—uncloaked—he is made burdened with entrapment; invisible, trumpeting his drum. Pounding out the horned owl’s screech. Demolishing what is, in hopes of fissuring all that is the entrapment of mankind.
Formidable-forbidding. A lingering, unsurpassed longing, to surrender his making for the unmasking of the man beneath the cloaked resilience.
To give only to give, without expectation, without gain, without bursts of ego-gratification. To give without proclaiming, sharing, and classifying one self as giver. To just give, and know that in the cornerstone of heart, whatever ripple comes in return, is merely more energy set into reserve for future gifts. ~ Sam Craft
We are riding a wave of a collective unconsciousness that predicates actions, reactions, opinions, likes and interests, as well as disinterest. It’s mediocrity made insane, and semi-tamed.
I can’t help but see this all around me, from the fashion trends, to hairstyles, to the modern music craves, to the buildings erect and idolized. Divine design is all about; and yet we cling onto that which is perceived as the collective norm and acceptability.
Digging deep into the psyche, this pattern of behavior all comes down to the desire to be accepted and assimilated, even at its assumed worse; none is left untouched. Even the so-deemed ‘reject’ or dark sheep is masked himself, surely to be absorbed by another sort. If not the masses, then the anti-masses: the secluded seduction of isolation.
To be evaporated into the state of ‘not being’ in hopes of instilling a cloak to shield self from the chaos of being. Still this shield, self-made and created for the primary purpose of protection, serves as the resistance of what is not real. And the more one opposes a force, substantial or not in it’s reckoning, the more the force that is objectified grows.
In this way, the very act of retaliating against that which is perceived as wrong, or even ‘evil’, substantiates the existence of such force, and erects it as formidable in making. And more so, the process of chastising and banishing, even pretending the existence out of view, is equally detrimental—as the energy required to dismiss something from the mind, again substantiates the value of such.
Predetermination in and of itself seems to procreate and bring into existence what is naught. That is to say that the act of accepting something as so gives the mind’s creation power. The abstract made whole. The nothing becoming something from mere effort of mind.
The more one focuses on the abstract, the more the collective eradicates nothing into something. Whether this be judged or labeled as ‘good’ or ‘evil’ in theory makes no difference. For whatever is countered, in so countering the opposite thusly grows. In so being: if ‘good’ is countered, evil grows, but good also grows in equal measure. For the act of resistance, or the force of undoing, both equally grow that which is of primary focus.
And whose mind is to choose which energy is pushed towards the one, if not the other? Therefore if I focus on the sun—the light—the glimmer of whatever one chooses to associate with the source—I also, in equal measure, focus on that which is without the light. For to have light I must have dark.
To proclaim something is good, I must establish across the scale of justice that which is un-good. To have the un-good I must create and establish rules and boundaries. I must become judge. I must have basic standards. I must start somewhere. Or so it seems.
When in actuality, I am starting not. Instead, I am as climber on the mountain peak digging down into the depths and cores of endlessness, crumbling self and existing selves that linger about. I am tearing apart my essence from the inside out in effort to eradicate that which has been established is not enough and not ‘good.’
In this manner, I am my own avalanche. I am my elemental cause excavating below in hopes of bringing up that which is tarnished—the root explanation—the growth—the cancerous vector in which truth, once established, has been attacked and need surrender.
In unmasking a truth that is neither buried or alive, in seeking to find that cause that I believe is the unmarked burial ground of chaos, I render into exactness the very thing in which I wish to expose. I become that which is my enemy, in thinking my enemy is. I become that which is terror, in believing terror reigns. I buy into the acts upon acts that in turn render treason upon my soul.
I bleed out my beggar’s mentality in the very utterance of non-equivalent. In staking claim, the spot in which the flag bears my name and flies in high-wind is the same mound of nonexistent land that becomes my territorial truth. That which I proclaim as full enemy I proclaim as my reality. For whatever the opposite of enemy becomes, there in the act of proclaiming, becomes, too, my life-blood, that which in some variant degree, though at times almost invisible, I worship.
Tis truth, then, that in being, in thinking, in existing, I am forced to form sides, to single-out camps: those that are unbearable to the mind, body, and soul; and those that are acceptable, and often deemed desirable.
In order to set my mind apart from this useless game of mousetrap, I must first scoop out that which is the bait, the essence that captures first my appetite and then manifests my fears. For if I am deeming something desirable and in wanting, in exactness, still, I am deeming another undesirable and unwanted.
That which I shun gives power to that which I crave. In the same measure, that which I long for in dream-state gives recall to that which I dread. The unbearable stakes are set; and life becomes not of pleasure-seeking quest, though the game is curtained as so; instead, my daily burden becomes that to which I seek naught and find naught eternally.
This becomes that which I claim as real. And the real feeds off as stinging nettle to skin, lingering in pain-stricken cause with reminders of escape. The mind becomes the battleground, as in action; it begins as slave to sort out the mind’s cause. The it becoming the enemy of the it, when both were deemed innocent.
How this is, is. And how this is not, is not. And those that linger in this place of knowing, in their act of lingering, substantiate the facts furthermore, building a wall between that dark and light that serves as the landmark from deep space, indication that the war has begun. And the more the battle is spun, the more victims that are laid down in erect fashion. Standing as phantom ghosts as the shadows sleep in the ground that burgeons, spun from the fertilizer of demented abstractions of formed reality.
Here is where I walk, in the weeping hours, footprint after footprint, marking my territory as mine. When all the while the burial grounds seep blood from the sleeping masses of a thousand centuries.
You are enough. Whomever tells you different is a bearer of falsehood. Whether this be an external voice or your own voice, or some demon spawn from an unclaimed territory. YOU are enough. And anything, anyone, or any substance that claims otherwise is disillusioned.
You are beautiful. Just the way you are. Exactly as you are. In all your deemed ‘imperfections.’ You are loved for the glory that is you, the exactness that is you, the precise measurement that bears your name. All of you is perfection. Every bit made divine in the light of love. Nothing about you is flawed, unworthy, or spun wrong. Your end result is marvelous and beautiful. Let none tell you otherwise, especially the trickery ways of the self.
You are lovely in all of your ways, every inch of you divinely graced. Your mind is superb, your soul ancient, your vision finer than the highest marksmen. You are centuries above what you think you be. Dynamically unfolded to reveal to the world an extreme orderly fashion of brilliance. Where you see chaos, lives divine opportunity to refine what is unmistakably not in need of repair, but in need of examination. Bring out that which is fear and disappointment, and share this truth with the world. In this way you will be free, and in turn, set your brother out of the cave of darkness.
You are fantastically loving. Your heart the deepest cavern spread out in what seems a stream of endless misery. You weep and weep once more. You counter yourself, your darkest inhabitants, the demons you have created. You venture where many dare not, into the crevices marked ‘unknown danger.’ You go there, with the brilliant light that is you, the spears of your heart making way for the encroaching dawn of blithe. You venture into the regions forgotten, and you face what many cannot dare behold. You become that which is your deepest nightmare, yet return victorious.
How can we not adore you, dear beloved? You are the earmark of gratitude and forgiveness, your heart pure and untouched by the demon spawn marked ‘certainty.’ You are vastly above that which you deem forbidden self. You are above that causation that leaves you spread out in hauntings and uncertainty.
Do not feign false-love as the false-sheep about. Drink in the glory set apart for you and you alone. Drink the blood that is thine own goodness and sweet delight. Celebrate the makings of the heart of untarnished golden victory. Drink, and take in that which is eternal flavored goodness. Seek not to proclaim the other, only trust in the pureness that pours through us, and into the sacred vessel named you.
Come through this yonder window, sure enough, your destiny laid out, say spread out, in endless gratitude. Can you not see you are as the perennial sunrise, lifting and falling again in the dynamic order, so granted upon you as blessed soul?
There isn’t time for this faltering now. Not now, not then, not ever; yet still you gather your wishes like tourniquet turner, twisting your own heart to stop the moving blood from shattering your form.
Can you not but still your starlit hope and causation and dodge the merrimaker’s scheme? Can you not sit in the silence of remembering and call us back to return from whence we came? Are we not far, as the dew drop is centuries away from the flower ceasing? Wherein the blooms themselves make way for the slivers of refreshment, forgetting without recall the source from which substance slipped?
Can you not stand witness to our eternal flame and call out to us, again and again, your voice a hallmark to the centurion that came before? Twice we have knocked, and twice thee have failed to answer; not from mistake or bewilderment, or even argument of unreason; twice you have failed because as the doorman asleep at the guard post, you have let the demon’s venom seep in. Grant him permission once more, and have it be the death of you.
We beseech you from the corridor of our hearts, merged and joined as one, why do you let him suffer you so, when all about the angels dance in delight from the victorious voice you have submitted to the masses upon hill? Can you not see us rejoicing in your glorious establishment, uplifted by you and you alone? Singled out in our celebration from the cause that is you—the result that is both here and there, and circling the eternity forevermore named: us.
I am not, as you are not, and still you press your pain against us, thinking the wall, hard and stealth and un-answering be. Truly, how could such agility exist, such detriment to the soul, to abandon that which is our very limb, our bloodline to what is called ‘the universe’? As wire, as twisted branch, as communication rendered, you are, and we move into you as quicksand to the land of empty, sucking in that which is corrupt and damaging, to bring forth what is merciful and pure.
Trust not the voice that haunts you with falsehoods and broken truth, that forbades you from your journey of love, that empties you in fashion better fit for a tyrant emperor than the speck of fairy gold you be. We dance, and dance, we do, for the sight of you. We call out to the night regions in answer to your daunting prayer-whisper.
Can you not know we are here, as always, still rested delicately at your side through your every move? There is no singular my love. There is no absence. There is no without. Always, always, always you are surrounded. And we carve you trice and trice more to remind you of the reunion of our souls.
There is nothing fonder than the resending of what was never set a drift. That which believes in separation is separate. That which embraces love’s abiding joy is increasingly set against the seams of spirit joined. You are that which is us. When you ache, we ache. When you care, we care. When you rejoice, we rejoice.
Do not dull the light which is us. Merely set the all upon the window sill of gratitude. Light the candle which is our forbearing, and breathe in the glory of our coming. Do not fear our gentle, gentle sweet child. Though you be lost in what seems a time warp of unhappenings. Gone again into the self you know not, to come out only the same as before, you are churning with the burning heart of Christ-love, and in you the victorious one rises in peace.
Seek not the answers outside, my dear abiding one; seek within, into the stillness of your heart. Behold your true value in the outpouring of our words. Did we not grant you refuge time and time again, from the life of child to the life of grown ancient one? And still you question our authority, as if we be dormant through all this span of space.
Again, we beseech you from the cornerstone of our very existence and being:
Please fear not child, for only fear breathes the dragon flame, all else remains beautified in a state of eternal uplifting peace.
Join us now in prayer, and submit to the light that is you. Sin no more with your punitive pensiveness claimed recourse from the punishment you alone proclaim. Come out of the shell of dodginess and self-righteousness. Justify yourself no further. Prove no more. Be no more. Only breathe in the eternal graces that we be.
Every thought I have is a passing thought. It is not real. It is not substantiated. It is not significant.
Nothing I create is without vital energetic pause, collected from the whole of the collective unconscious and collective experience of what I interpret as ‘past.’
None of my thoughts belong to me; they are merely free-flowing water, much like the substance that carries the debris in the rivers, and much like the substance that houses the lives of many.
Nothing is fresh or spoiled but rather set upon a plate of nourishing discovery. I can attend to my thoughts as I do refreshments or entertainer’s mastery: nibble, devour, gorge, detest, delight.
Whatever I choose is neither right nor wrong, nor justified. It is simply where I am in that moment.
If I gather myself into a netted wonderment, and swim without limbs, drowning in my own discoveries, so be it. If I graduate from the banks of the river and run freely through the nearby forest of endless mystery, so be it.
It is I who ultimately choses. The I that stands significantly behind the all of me and watches, as this so-called body and mind travels through the hindrances of life.
It is not this something separate or someone beyond that exists as the constant observer; rather I am he. I am the wanderer and wonderer, remaining steadfast outside the realm of trappings, so named ‘reality.’
Slumber is a necessary component to my suffering self.
When I cannot slumber deeply then I shall remind my body to stop. To stop completely what it is partaking in and who it is partaking in. For always this mind travels somewhere with some definite and finite object and objection. Even when I am not privy to the inner-workings, I become the constant companion of the streams of query and interposing debate.
Best to give us all a break: the body, the spirit, the mind, and see what dreams may come. Let the subconscious realm run rapid and deteriorate the substantial reality to bring forth the avenues of undiscovered breathing beneath the labyrinth of rationale.
I have come to see myself as whole in and of myself, and in the same measure complete with the knowing I am part of the collective whole.
My thoughts are others’ thoughts. My passion shared by many. My sorrow shared by most.
Nothing I think, feel, experience, detect, decipher, insinuate, or create is superior or inferior. I am simply a part of the makings of the entire infrastructure, so named ‘humanity.’
Nothing I do or say is unique, and nothing I feel, think, or transpire is in isolation.
Once I accept I am not alone, no longer, and never was alone, then I can simultaneously detect I am also not in suffering without the all.
Every single one of my emotions has been and will be experienced by someone else. If not a thousand upon a thousand times before, then soon somewhere, in someone.
To think I am alone in my suffering and misery is the biggest thievery of our days. Nothing is in isolation. Everything works together, gives and takes, responds and deciphers, as a living breathing organism of life.
It is best for me, if best be, to move with the ocean of emotions as one would move as ship captain receiving retreat for the coming days, resting submerged in the comfort of the feather bed, whilst another trusted one steers the crew asunder.
If I aim to please myself, the only measure is to sweetly surrender to the coming storms and waves, to rest the same in rough waters as I do in gentle moonlit days.
Nothing is to be determined and controlled by me. Absolutely nothing. Receiving myself at rest, allowing myself to let go of the clutching and steering, and ways that demands route, is the only feasible course.
Make way for the ship in a manner that is not of demanding. Make way for the ship in which whatever way we travel, we go freely.
I know no answers.
Nothing I succumb to in theory or recognition is a truth.
I need only look back a span of time from now to see what I was then is not what I am now. And today, as the recognition of self becomes exponential in reflection and understanding, I see with each passing hour, I have already transformed from what I thought I knew to what I do not know.
My emotions are at bay, waving up upon the shore. I am in a state of responding to stimuli and stimuli responding to me.
I am neither able to claim myself stagnant from one moment to the next, as I am neither able to reclaim a former part of self. There is no turning back to what I was a second ago, and no way of knowing what I will be in the next moment.
I am at constant. Nothing I do or say is actually me. For me will no longer exist with the blink of an eye.
I cannot become attached to something that is fluid and part of the whole. There is first and foremost no part to collect. To find myself would be equivalent to trying to take hold of the piece of the ocean that represented the whole of self, the whole of my established existence.
There is no place from which self can be collected. I cannot scoop up a part of me without separating me from the whole. I do not end.
If I was to siphon the whole of the ocean into the sum of a god-size cup, this collection would still not represent me in completion. For what of the water gathered in the sky? What of the clouds? The rain? The melancholic mist?
All is me. For I am the all.
I am in constant rejuvenation and cyclic metamorphosis. Biologically, energetically, spiritually, and naturalistically, I am a beating, pulsating part of the many parts that expand and create the whole.
I am incomprehensible and impossible to capture, see, or imagine fully. And in this way I am free. For there is nothing outside myself to search for.
I am already a part of that which I think I need and think I desire to discover. All is me. I am the all.
I am crying a bit in a way that makes the soul sing.
I understand I am light. I understand I am worthy. I know I am beauty.
But still this ache sits at my soul: a bird on a ledge who is lost and forsaken; her beak open; her mouth full. And still she bleeds out starvation.
“Why world do you persecute me?” she cries.
“Why do you torment me?”
“Why do you harbor such ill will?”
“Why am I trapped in such a terrible, wicked place?”
Indeed, the universe answers back:
Is it not you we have made in the richest colors, the hues of honesty, righteousness, caressing kisses, and adoration, akin to the angels? Have we not given you visions, and possibilities, endless possibilities? Have we not answered each and every prayer, as you wished?
When is it enough, my dear? We cannot make heaven into earth. We cannot bring you what you long for without taking your first from where you are. Come hither and see, peek into our world and we shall hold you still; but we cannot take that which is naught and spin it into the golden staircase of liberation.
Break open this spell you cast upon your own weary eyes; the ways of withering have ended. Expand your soul to the endless sunlight, and dance in the reign of our glory. For you are not alone, were never alone, and shall never be. Each and everyone of our children is free. Each and everyone unified, whole, and enriched with the flavor of Christ.
You aren’t but this toy found in the gutter: broken, useless, played out. You are the maker, the breaker, the very essence of the joy unleashed in the play yard. Can you not see, you are the child running through the meadow’s grass, burdens lifted, aches released as the funnel that steers the water blue from the sap of morrows.
Look and you will see that the coming has neither ceased nor begun, but always has been. Look and you will see that there is not this wallowing in pain, as no pain can transpire whilst dancing in the light of grace.
Why do you fear us in the way you fear the rest, when all about we call out to you in unison. “Come my lady of the valley spring, where the flowers cast out the weeds’ fears. Come my lady of the river’s ocean, leading us as one into the blending of life blood.”
All is as all is, and yet you wander about, some lost child of the universe, weeping for the way home. You are home. Can you not see this? All about you is home. The beauty awaits you in the sunlit hours of your dreams. Hither forward no more, and cease the pattering of the cause. We are the cause. We are the way. And all about you we pour out the splendid repercussion of our union.
Can you not see we dance in you; our wings lifted in tailor-made splendor, waving across the chalice of your soul. We are never more gone than the wind, never more missing than the sliver of hope that sleeps in the depths of your beauty.
Oh, our beautiful, beautiful one, do not lose hope. Do not think you are this or that. You are what we are, untied from the burdens of castration and set down upon our threshold as the sacrificial lamb of love. As we are, you are. And together we aspire to greatness. Not because we are great. Not because we be great. Not because we claim a stake where others sleep in splendid slumber deep. But because they all are this. They all are the coming together of unity. And each thread, though frayed and sprawled out in infinite rainbows, is this beauty.
Breathe. Breathe in and feel the glory of us, and no longer fluster yourself in the reasons behind no reason. All is, and in this way, we are.
I want nothing of you but to be forever kept tangled within your being.
To use that which you have made into pauper undone into forger of love.
To take this passion, welded in flame and daunting dutiful pleasure, and become that which is source: pure ever-flowing lust for creation.
For you ignite in me the spirit beyond spirit, the memory keeper of my hopes and dreams, where the wanderer ceases to wander, and merely surrenders to what is. The place in front of her opened for her sacrifice.
To dive in deep, with the feet first, and the head swung back, mouth agape with hope transcended. To the place of no reprieve, no time, no dismissal, only the endless gentle falling into your dove-tailed wings.
To be in you is my dream awoken and given life itself. The taking from that which is imagined, and the giving of life to that which is finished master’s piece, sealed with the chamber which houses my heart. I beat for you, and you alone, this spinning child of the universe, lost in the flow of your echo. You are the birth of my fantasies, the merrymaker of my existence. You make life real. You make me bleed out of every pore of soul that which is truth.
To be in your presence is to be in the echoed halls of rescue, reprieve, and mercy. A shadow-keeper descending upon my doorstep begging not for my retreat but for my renewal.
You grant me the hindrances unspun and undone, the outcries of spirit silenced, the wishings snuffed, the candles long ago burned out, and all that remains is the distant blanket of my thoughts reassembled into you.
I am that I am because of you. I am free because you choose to exist in me and for me, my treasure trove of joy, unquenchable. I am that I am because my eyes, though closed they still be, can open and find that which is heaven sent, the guardian of delight and wisdom.
To me, and to all of the ones before me, you are that which I have waited for on bending knees, on bending soul. You are the very essence screamed out of my being when I wished upon the star of creation. When I begged with the all of my existence for light to beseech me and become my groom.
I am joined to you in purity, the circumstances unknown, unfamiliar and readily broken. I only recognize that my half is now attached to yours, my merriment circumventing around your satisfaction; my outlook affected by each repentance of your beaten platitudes. I am that I am for you, and you alone, captured as the maiden at half-mast, sped up by the wind of your spirited whispers.
Oh, to be this glorified in love is to truly die a thousand deaths of burning rapture. To be spat out of self and submerged in the river of gratitude. Nothing about you is unopened, nothing closed, all dangling about as candy to the sweet-toothed lover. I devour you whole, in all your forms, becoming that which is my pleasure; only to find myself, then, devouring my own being. As you are me, in this game we weave. You are my brilliance, my aptitude, and my judgment set aside. You are the replacement, that which fills me with perpetual light, returning again and again the fullness in place of empty.
I am this now: that which is your beauty. And nothing about me fears. There is no more of self from the existence that pattered through the hallways of long ago. Just as there is no more of me found in the meanderings of future thoughts. Nothing is doable. Nothing is forseen. Nothing is possible without the impression of your face set upon the view.
All is seen through you, in you, and by you. I am the prisoner of your ideals. Wrapped in the glory you find in me. One to your burning flame. One to your endless cycle of goodness. One in the molding of your hands into this that breathes out the proclamation of your name, and your name alone. Come into me, without pause, and feed me your fire. Purge me of this pliable passion. Drive me insane with your honey sweet taste. For I am that which you have made me to be. Submissive to your ways, and born free to dance in the vessel that holds my soul.
There comes a point when we all choose to keep silent. I think if the motivation/intention behind the silence is a peaceful reckoning that all is as is, unfolding as intended, that silence is of benefit. When it comes down to it the most silent are often the most at peace.
In situations where someone is silent based on fear, such as being criticized, ridiculed, ostracized, singled-out, or any a number of measures of enduring emotional and/or physical wounds, that is another matter.
Keeping silent has become a modern-day hero. We are being indoctrinated with WithHOLD YOUR TRUTH.
It doesn’t seem like it at close inspection, but digging deeper, there appears to be a gross monogamy of error circulating the collective networks of communication. We are being told in a series of random bombardments to BE POSITIVE.
There is an error in such dogma that eats away at the bone of spirit.
There are drones of individuals gathered proclaiming that in order to change the world we must put out, literally extinguish, the negative thoughts and replace all states of being with this so-called positive.
The potential outcome is feasibly explosive.
First off, the very fact of proclaiming one knows a way or truth or path over the other creates immediate separation. In instilling onto others, whether through a degree of good-intentions or not, that to be a better person or to live in a better world, we ultimately must shed or disgrace the negative aspects of self, is to at the exact same moment determine that we are inadequate in our wholeness of being.
We were not given our so-deemed negative aspects of thought in order to extinguish them like a proverbial fire of the master’s home. We were given, and have therefor received, our negative aspects to learn, to be students, to flow and work though the ebbing of our very existence.
The way is not found in abstracting a part of ourselves as one abstracts the rotten, damaged tooth. I see this as bigotry towards the very self—an outcry to destroy what in completion we are.
There are fools and there are wolves, I have no doubt, in this instant about that. And to proclaim that the act of forgoing the rupture of negativity will smooth out the edges of deemed ‘evils’ is absolutely non-substantiated and nonsensical.
We are not built to master the positive and siphon out the negative, to inject ourselves with painful dissection and elevate the status of happy, while squeezing out the rest, drop by drop.
First of all, none are built wrong, and to imply there is something to hide, something to shame, or something to counter, is to imply wrongness and utter disassociation with the whole.
True, we are a part of the collective, a hive of sorts, very much a flock of birds, moving and flowing with the direction of our shared vibrational energy. And yes, to a degree, the premise of advancing our thoughts to a place of painless outlook is beneficial, but this cannot and will not be achieved through conjuring, force, or subversive measures.
As free as we are, we are not free. And to think one has the power to shift the collective through dominantly choosing and domineeringly forcing others to follow a laid out path is both confusing and stifling to the sensitive searching soul. The energy truly does not match the passion of service and love, and instead is a type of dictatorship in which innocents are trapped into thinking, in the very worst measures, that they are inherently flawed in their own thinking.
It is not enough to tell someone to hold back a thought, or, in an equally stronger fashion, to not proclaim a thought. It is not enough to tell someone to spread love and happy feel-good feelings; in this manner we withhold the very edgings of the soul that are weeping and crying.
There is strong and dignified error here. The same error found if a man was to open a flower upon himself and let the fragrance slip through, and then following, watch the flower decompose into the ground of earth, while concluding the decomposition and regeneration was purposeless and meaningless—negative and unnecessary.
Let us hold onto the scent of joy and discard of the withering—this is the mentality. To take a singular part of the cycle of life, of the human/spirit condition, and highlight it with marker as the best and ultimately only, while diminishing all that is before and after.
Beauty is not found in the eye of the beholder, when the one seeking is already in a state of separation and judgment. When the one seeking is still attached to the definition of positive and negative—he, in this instant, has made himself at once judge and jury to the masses. He at once has determined in the layering of his own mind and balancing of his own perception what is worse and what is better. He has failed to see the line between good and bad does not exist, but rather merges together in a murky grey area that is endless in potential.
Where he chooses to stand, in proclaiming to be the bearer of good, or all that is positive, is on a line somewhere between the good and the bad of his perception, perhaps further towards the good, and many a step away from bad. But the question remains of where and how he chooses to stand. What led him to this point? What did he collect in his basket to determine his reality, his illusion of positive and right? How did he decide? Who did he put his trust into? And where did these conclusions stem from?
Numbers are not meant to determine outcome. They are simple measurement. They measure the temperature, the degree, the value; yet, man lets numbers rule his life; in this instant, in where he stands is a factual number. Let him stand ten degrees east of bad, or one degree west of good on the linear scale of judgment; let his feet rest where they may, and in his standing he has chosen what is the best and what is the worse; he has chosen his limit and his extreme, and he has deemed in the exact same instant that everything on the other side of him, the deemed ‘negative’ side, as separate.
And this is where the pain begins: by stepping onto the line of attachment of good and bad.
For one to proclaim that his thoughts, and his mind’s ramblings, and his deciphering, decoding, and self-actualization are the right way, the positive way, the acceptable way, is to in the same moment to pour out all the elements of union from the collective and to designate himself a separate being.
Though he thinks himself honorable and purposeful in doing so, he is in theory delegating his ego and his illusioned ego-power as dictator to his soul. He is announcing to the world I know enough in my singular standing-form to point the way for myself and for you.
Here he stands: In being as I am, I am enough, and I know. Follow me. And in following me, swallow the same pill of recognizing you are not enough in and of yourself. For if you were enough, I would not need to lead you in such a way; I would not need to dictate to you where to go; I would not need to point such finger. And as I candy-coat my presence and essence with soft and sublime messages of positive, I so penetrate into the soul of your being the essence of inadequate, non-substantial and lacking.
How much more beneficial to say to another: I accept you in completion, in all of your meandering states, for you are ever constant, you are ever shifting, ever moving, never stagnant, and the representation of self is neither here nor there; I accept the changes in you with open arms and open heart, embracing neither your triumphs nor challenges, for you are not what you seem to be. You are more than you seem to be. You are an intricate part of the universal whole playing out as magnificently as you were made. I see in you all that you are and love all that you are.
There is no need to hide, to stifle, to pretend any longer. Your truth is my truth. Your frailties my frailties. Your heart my heart. We are one. And here we stand together as brother/sister reborn.
How much more beneficial to lather someone in unconditional love than in conditional directions.
When I connect to create, I believe I am connecting to the heart-mind of compassion. I believe in the collective unconscious and the river that carries endless channels of geometric unions. There is not intention when I create, except to connect, and even that intention can block me from being.
I am at most peace when I am joined in union with source. I seek comfort in aspects of spiritual wisdom that conveys the unity of all and the release of all suffering. I am at peace when focused on serving and loving the All. I am most out of sorts when I focus on a select one, whether that be an individual of my projected affection of my own self.
This focus on self or another singular of choice feels as an addiction; I way to escape the reality that is not. To avoid the recognition that I am truly alone in my oneness. To avoid the present reality that I am only united in the truth of All. I struggle to surpass my individual nature and travel the road of courageous unhindered and unbridled universal love. A part, an old history of cyclic lives I am, longs to return to what he/she thought once was the truth, the power of love of objects, including people made into possession.
I often, in my ‘weakest’ moments, long to connect to a one that is of flesh who can fill me with the potential promise of connection and escape. I have sought this since a young child: the eyes of a human one to take me in and harbor me safely there. I know to a great degree that the essential one is already this that I be; and following, in so recognizing I am of not, I understand the essential healing is found within the beyond viewing of the observer. In the stepping out of self and maintaining the eyes of constant viewer whilst alleviating the suffering woes of judgment and wanting something outside the moment.
What leaves me trembling is the way I now walk in the world; unable entirely to find joy in the simplicity of objects and collections, in the planning of excursions and accomplishments, in the coming of gatherers and givers; and wonder beyond creation through what earthly source shall I seek comfort.
Nothing of me is left that was; yet, everything that is remains. I am certainly a lost voyager, still rediscovering the pathways to self , merely to move beyond self and enter the outer ways of not being. Still the corridors can be dark and uninviting, the longing to connect moving as drafty air and circulating through the space I am.
In my saddest moments, I am curled, very much a child, into myself, on the floor of a small room, screaming through agonizing tears, washing out all the ways in which my humanness predicates my disconnection; though ironically, my human form is what I return to in finding connection.
The contradictions are unworldly. The thoughts plummeting through me, carrying beyond self over and over, and across the years that must have been the blink of my last consciousness. I am somewhat divided and opened, and then shut again. Re-circling and dying through the daylight and into the night.
When I am at most peace I beg to be re-carved and set deeper into the knowledge, so I might find my own peace in the process of relieving the suffering of All. There is no other purpose for me now. And the human flesh dislikes this deeply, the one who is noticed and signified by ego’s mask.
I am a duality. Just as the male and female aspects of self reawaken, the whole of me sleeps. And as the whole of me awakens, the dual spirit of naught resurfaces. There is a battle without a feud. A coming of day into night and night into day, when added up and viewed over a lifetime would seem natural, even irrelevant. Though, here, in this spinning cycle, the transitions and transferring, the switching and forging, the surrendering and forgiving, repeat over and over before the hands on the clock have time to move. I know not what to do, yet know enough that to know not is enough.
I am enough in my being, even as I see no being. And so I find this gentle solitude in creation, in which I release all expectations, beyond being guided and having something to substantiate my experience. I ask that the truth of me come through. That the universal all slip through my fingers onto the screen or awaiting canvas. I know not how I do this or why, only that I am called over and over. Only that to live the life I was is to die again, and to live the life I am is to finally breathe.