Kosmogonia's Blog

Dreamjournal 1 "Prophet"

There is an old train-bridge that leads to a tunnel near my Old Home. For the entire span of my life, this bridge that leads into the brush has served as a Terabithian dream door. I have had countless experiences crossing that bridge and entering worlds far unknown to this reality. In that dense forest, anything is possible. I have left the forest fulfilled, terrified, and with mixed emotions.

Last night, I crossed the bridge to visit a man who had discovered something "godly." He had assumed a following, and was preaching a spiritual message that was not the usual dogma. I traveled far through the woods to find him, and I cannot remember the entire journey. I do remember sitting with him and we went through my life. He was an average looking, white male with a promising smile. He seemed sure of his words, and I hopelessly fell for them. Before me were the happenings of my life.

Suddenly it jumped to a moment of despair. I needed help. I was swimming in this darkened, square-shaped pool with other people. They were moving about frantically--I felt myself drowning. When I asked the man for help, he lead me to a passage in the Bible. It occurred to me that he had deceived me to join his religious order, and perhaps by not adhering specifically to whatever doctrine, my punishment was this wet madness.

People in swim caps swum around me, trying to pull me under, racing, screaming. Truly, I was in a Liquid Hell.

And then everything stopped. There was darkness, silence. Nothing but my thinking.
I knew that there is brain activity long after the body dies, and so I thought I was dead. That somewhere in the real world, the body I had called "me" was receiving its final resting place, and those I loved were grieving.
I also thought about time. How long had I been dead? Years? Millennia?
And only now becoming conscious of my own bodiless existence.

Then Kiah shook me and told me that I wasn't dead. She told me to wake up and live.

So I did.

Separation.

A woman's face.
She bleeds black tears.
Somewhere, in the darkness
a gray effigy awaits the heat
to end her sorrow.

There is glass between us,
as I imagined it.
Or a mirror peering within
my inescapable illusion.
A fist through the cool hardness
grants me absolution,
or untimely self-destruction.

A fist through the cool hardness
brings an end,
nonetheless.

I wait amongst divided seas,
rife with uncertainty and consequence.
The boat whispers to me in moments of sleep,
and arbitrarily in moments of wakefulness.

There is water between us,
as you might imagine.
Or another mirror reconstructing
the lines of this concrete,
biological machine.
A fist through the deep moisture
overturns the vessel.

We breathe liquid death
together
as one.
Joy succumbs to that which is
far from the reach of time;
and again
we bleed black tears.

Again,
we stare blankly toward
somewhere in the darkness.
Divided.

The Inner Sunrise

What purpose is there in life?

What purpose is there in life?
Welling up inside me is a deep darkness so vast, it is consuming each waking day.
I wake up. I'm older. I smile. Death smiles back.
Often, I ask myself, "What is to come?" But what comes is a quiet murder,
and a distortion of self.

I'm lost in this illusory reality. And my relationship with it dwindles.
Affection fades away.
The hope of my past spills over into some great ocean, while the pathetic now
remains.
I'd like to join that great ocean of selfless wonder.
I'd like to just be.

The good things here come when you least expect them,
at a rare and precious moment. You catch a glimpse of truth out of the
incomprehensible whispers.
Sometimes truth hurts, and bites you through your own shell.

I am naked.
Wandering.
Missing.

I lack the confident direction required. Please, let me out to sea.
I want to join nothing.
This body is not me. If it were, I would only be something temporary.
If I am temporary, it's ok.
If I am to be lost in this chaos--as only this.
It is ok.

In dreams, I am comforted and "awake." I see even more beyond what I can see here.
Those rare and precious truths.

My role is not fixed. I am changing. How many times have I died?
When will I have that one, and final death?
I blink, I am something new. Everything has changed.
How I love so many things for what they are.
But I fear death right now. I don't know why.

The answer is not in science.
The answer is not in religion.
The answer is not in the exterior.
The answer is within the music of emotion.

In order to take myself to the next level, I must purge from my reality.
What holds me down must be destroyed.
Returned to nothing through my love.
And shall they lovingly oblige.

I am naked and in the ground.
Let me see the sun again, one last time.
Let me live--to love--to die.
As my last breath expires, those rare moments will fleetingly swim across my eyes.
And then I will be nothing more.

I will have disappeared.

I feel sad.

    Whenever I feel down, I find it's best to hide it. A lot of people would steer me in directions detrimental to my condition. Some would point me toward drugs, while others may offer Jesus or something else outside of my reality. I cannot relate to these remedies as so, instead what others offer seems to be completely different to me.
Those I once confided in are gone at the moment, living their own lives out how they wish to. And it's useless to rely on others for any kind of emotional encouragement.
    In times like these, I realize what fascinates me about Eastern thought. How it molds my self-concept, grips my heart, and directs me toward inner peace. I am my own reality, and while the thoughts that pervade my mind may not always be under my will, I can expand my awareness. Detract myself from the existence I believe to be real.
    Really, I'm one for empathy. I love looking at life from another's perspective, yet this act also allows me to see how different I am. Time is not the same for me. I'm some kind of animal in the light of everyone else; I exist at a different pace. And at times while it seems everything passes me by, lifetimes dissolve, and I evolve into someone else.
    Lately I've been analyzing my thought processes. Why do I think of WHAT I do WHEN I do? What neurological impetus sparks those connections, launching me into some other mode of cognizance. My only answer now is to remove everything. Return to the source. Put chaos on hold and focus on the seemingly-eternal pulse of time. When I die and disappear, I am able to return fresh and new.
    Being the same person all the time is impossible, as well as boring. Nobody does it.
    I find motivation in obscure places. But when I find it, I can almost feel my own cellular structure collapsing and unfolding from within, zigzagging up to my brain. I am the manifestation of thought, the projection of this truth.
    As these words escape me, I am dissipating into time's often cruel destruction.

    Focus. Drive. Inner reality. Confidence. Realization. Awakening. Evolution.

    These are my keys to success. No one beyond this beating corpse is as real as this. Memories and creations. I remain unaffected by what I wish not to affect me, and forever shaped by my own art. Sadness and happiness are but emotional fancies, transient and apt to change. What I strive for is timeless, nearly unobtainable, distant, and far down the path of righteousness. Wake up. Blink. Become. Everything is here for you.

If you can only wake up.

Empty

Retrospection

To say that dreams are pure, and we find fragments of them in our waking life. Is that such an obscure idea?

I know I give the internet such a bad impression of myself, because whenever I decide to write from the inner-emotional experience mode, the timing is set near a depressing state. Right now, I have nothing to complain about. I'm happily in school, I've got friends, a future, decent grades, money, a car, and a whole list of traits I wouldn't trade for the world itself. Still, as any human, I find myself standing in a dark hallway of loneliness. I ask myself, "why?" There is no reason.

And then I think about the entire span of my life. At 19, I feel already as if my life has been long. Many skies have flown above me, and I've experienced many things. Though there is much to learn, I discover that I am at a standstill. The wonder of yesterday has faded. I'm stuck. Days pass, voices come and go. Was it something I had and lost?

People have been born and died in this short life of mine, not only in the literal sense. I miss the connections I had with those who have since grown into someone else, naturally. No one remains the same in the chaos of reality. But I remember my child-self, strewn across the wet grass of my backyard, looking at the stars and thinking about what all I could become. Even then, I knew that all that ever was and would be of any worth existed as a projection of my own mind. That with my own inner God-of-sorts, this life would be more than I could even begin to predict.

Yes, I give my child-self a lot of love. I know it's strange, but I feel that that person had all the answers.

Now, I'm not so sure if this one does.

When people change in a way we find unsatisfactory, it is equivalent to death, and I grieve in such a way. They still exist--breathing and walking a path--but they are no longer that same, compatible entity you once cherished. This happens with friends of all types, love relationships, family members. In 7 years, cells have died and regenerated. Almost physically, they are not the same person.

In some ways, this is an intriguing part of life, the whole unpredictable aspect. When we have children, we've no basis on what to expect for personality. They could become anything.

I, on the other hand, feel much the same--though I know I'm not. I know how to manage identities, relate to others, what my interests are (now.) Yet, I miss those relationships I had which made me feel more than alive. As if I wasn't only me, but someone else as well. Though others may simply forget how the days were back then, I will cherish them as if they may come to be once again.

If you stop and think that everything in existence is essentially your life. Any one thing that is-- a tree or the distinct memory of one--that is your life. I shudder a bit knowing that when I die, the truth as I know it--on a universal scale--will meet an apocalyptic end... regardless of how my heartbeats cease. Think of your own days, and perhaps you will realize the preciousness of our short time here. Then you will know why any life is precious.

Back in College

Days pass,

leading to weeks.

The seasons rise and fall at their own will.

Now, as I peer deeply into myself in this late summer moment, I pray for Fall to shower me with a new mindset. Moreover, to sway this dull schedule I have fallen into. Make me fall into something else!

Junior Year. ATO Fraternity House--though not a member of the frat--in a dying two-thousand and seven. At last, the heat is subsiding. But, as always, I am growing older. John is studying in China. Will is a marine. I am left with the blessed accompaniment of Todd, Matt, and Dave M. So, things have changed as naturally as ever.

Yet, I still feel complacent--the same uneasiness I have written about for awhile. What is required to transcend? As every day is born and dies, somewhere, locked within these waves of mystery, I know the answer. I can even tell you it's obvious, perhaps right under my nose. But right when I put my finger on it, the realization has disappeared.

Sternwheel was pretty fun this year. I met up with a lot of old buddies (had to avoid some too), and watched the fireworks with friends for once. Last year, I recall the event was marked with sadness. I have my own problems now, as well, but not as I did at that time. Dave, Matt, Todd, and I make a pretty good group. We're unique, funny, and always creative in our conversations. Rarely am I bored when we conspire as a group.

This period in my life I believe is like the eye of a hurricane. I have experienced much in my youth, the entire spectrum of suffering and joy. Struggle, collapse, and reconstruction. In college, I merely am. Food is provided, a place to live. All that is required is minor work compared to what was, and most likely what will be. I cannot anticipate what the next storm will bring, but at least I'll have a decent raincoat.

That is how I look at college.

My hair has grown back from when I shaved it. And now I'm enjoying the Upanishads as translated by Eknath Easwaran.

The Upanishads

Morning has bestowed upon me another day.

Katatonia awaits in Cleveland.

No Way but Up

Purge the waste to reveal the Limitless that reaches far beyond the realms of possibility.

    There, in the sacred and neglected recesses of the mind, spirit may be found adorned in
All Her Glory.

    There, Universe breathes and ceases to be.

    One Heartbeat.

    One Whisper.

    The rules that govern earthly bodies, binding them to echoes of suffering, are lifted in an
unimaginable grandeur, in one precious spot.
    
    Feet release their weighted kisses that have wed them to dirt. A rise with no fall. Apex. The tip
of the crescendo. Breaking and pulling and lifting.

    Ascension.

1

  

In Marietta

How can I portray the activity that is raging inside?
Why do I choose to write upon this blog and not my personal journal?
The only reason, I suppose, is I want someone to read what I have to say. Whether I'm alive or dead, respected or a laughingstock. It's just a comfortable feeling, knowing it's here.

I have come to realize that I operate from somewhere else. I cannot understand people on a massive scale. Ignorance, apathy, and conceit swells from every corner of my observant eye. This country is failing because its people are failing. This world is dying because those who have the "God-given" circuitry to do anything about it sit as complacent fools--getting skinny or fat--filling their pockets.

Everyone has become blind in two ways:

- They do not see the outside environment beyond their own worthless desires

- They haven't the courage to discover the vibrant arena within

The judgment of others extremely pisses me off. Nobody can worry about themselves anymore. I am at a point where there is no 'me' any longer. I do what I want, satisfy what little interests I have, and the rest is a service to those around me.

I am not affected by those who try to ignore me, and erase me from their view. Or assault me with verbal abuse.
This is not a high school world anymore. I'm not some Fort Frye Jockstrap lookin for a lick.

I am what I am. Part of it by choice, but the essential--the absolute most important is what? Genetic random chance?

I'm not here to impress anybody. Relationships begin and they end, one way or another. I hurt and laugh as everyone sleeping is slowly devoured by their own dreams.

So I'm not making sense. I can do that. Especially on blogs.

Basically what I'm saying is that life is precious. But humans have only been here for the blink-of-an-eye in the history of the planet. And they are perfect in that they have consciousness, self-awareness, and a dense sense of judgment. I only wish they could use it.

I would give my life to heal this cold world. If that's all it took. One insignificant but precious life.

It wouldn't take me a blink-of-an-eye.

Uncertain Tomorrow

When I close my eyes,

there is no evidence that I am still alive.

The sounds I hear

are only ambient echoes

of days long gone

played on repeat.

I drift upon the tide of uncertainty

enveloped in the storm's wake;

limbs outstretched toward the limitless forever

absorbing all that is the Godhead.

Attaining the infinite, only to lose it

and become forgotten.

This is the beauty of tomorrow.

I do not know what face is hidden behind what mysterious mask.

Only the unshakable knowledge remains:

that at the end of my road, there is death.

Release.

Some kind of meaning.

 

Hot Pursuit

The media world that had once been the source of my absorption has become a distant relative. This summer, I have found myself changing not so much out of these creative realms, but moreover out of the realms of others. I sit back, perhaps become inspired momentarily by a beloved work of art, and then go back to whatever it is I may be doing beyond the search for that transient morsel of delectable satisfaction.
Living righteously, with heightened awareness, in appreciation of every click of the second-hand, in a direct waltz with cause and effect upon the earth's creaky floorboards. That, my most attentive readers, is what it's all about!
I am tired of restricting myself to only the lower desires.
Sure, I support the philosophical and spiritual premise that indulgence in the self breeds an even hungrier beast; however, moderation is also a factor in this premise.
To say that happiness is the culmination of suitable memories, underlying my argument of moderate self-satisfaction.
Oh, I do enjoy helping others. But rarely do they come crawling to me anymore, instead rendering my advice unnecessary.
Lately, I have pursued what is to say--higher desires. Not dangerous or particularly illegal, is risky the right word? Let us say: adult.
Maybe my tastes are merely becoming more refined. In this consumer world, it is the money that whispers to the musician what tune to play. And now it is also the musician who plays to the tune of that quiet heaven, mechanistically.
Yes, it's become difficult to separate art from the money. This is the problem in any field. So I'm now soaked in reality.
In pursuit.
Hot pursuit.