The scariest thing in the world is a blank page.
Looming looming looming
hovering over me with a presence denser than mine as I search the white space for generosity, mercy, givingness.
I keep coming back to it though.
Coming back to the same thing,
wanting something different, something new,
finding the same old me.
Same but different.
Different but same.
It’s a yearning, this coming back around every time.
A haunting, sometimes.
It calls to me and sometimes I don’t answer.
I pretend like it’s not there.
I act like I’m not bothered by it,
bothered by its beckoning and my turning away.
It’s weird because all I want to do is turn into it,
to give into it,
but I find that I run away more often than not.
Sometimes I’ll have a streak of several days, consistent writing.
And then, not.
Where does the madness begin,
where does it end?
Does it ever?
It’s mad to think that it ever does.
Maybe that’s where I experience the most madness,
when I feel like I’m ever out of the madness,
wanting to be in it,
wanting so much to be surrendered to it,
wanting so much to be fully IN IT.
To be taken over.
But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?
It’s not madness until we succumb to it ourselves,
until we know that we know that we know that we are mad and choosing it again and again,
Until we do, we are drowning in water without knowing what water is, and thus, what drowning is.
It’s the consciousness that is the insanity, the active desiring and choosing of the thing that drives us mad and gives us life.
to ourselves first,
and then to the world.
There’s nothing different between this moment and all the moments before and all the moments that follow.
I am just as mad as before.
Just flowing through a different progression,
All the same.
Perhaps I’m more aware of it,
aware of me in it,
aware of it in me.
More aware that I am choosing it,
and the magic of it all lies in my choosing it.
Not an exhibition,
not a performance,
not the audience,
not the response.
Me choosing me.
I can’t help but feel there is so much… presence in this moment.
I have arrived in a new place,
just like all the other times,
and never like anything else.
I feel more me than before.
I feel more of me.
And I think that’s probably the thing I’ve only ever wanted, to be all me.
To know me,
to feel me,
to fill me out,
to allow what’s within fill me out farther, deeper, vaster, wilder.
That is life, is it not?
That is the reality of who I am, what I’m meant to do with this lifetime, no?
If not this, then I don’t know what.
Might as well die now.
all journeys lead to this.
To answer the question we all ask ourselves:
Who am I?
For a reason, yes.
I feel like I’ve been asking that question all my fucking life.
I feel like that’s all I’ve ever wanted to know.
I’ve never really wanted anything else,
ideal family situation.
All those things are nice,
and yes I have prayed for those things to improve,
but at the heart of it,
I would drop it all in a heartbeat if I could know who I was and why the motherfack I was here.
It’s surreal, to be here.
Because, to some degree, I feel like I’ve arrived,
like I’ve slipped into the fullness of me that I was meant to.
It feels so right, feels so good because it feels so right.
So right because it feels so good.
So much good, so much right.
It feels solid,
*I* feel solid.
Like I know something, a secret that only I’m meant to know, though not meant to be kept from others.
Just a little inward smile between me and the universe,
chuckling at an inside joke,
a cryptic utterance that can only be caught in the intersection of impermanence and full presence.
There’s still more.
There’s always more.
As long as I breathe a physical breath, I will continuously be here for the more.
I welcome it.
I desire it.
I know it.
I yearn for it.
I know it’s mine.
I came here to know it all, after all.
The way I’ve done my life,
done my journey has been so telling of the centered desire for the more,
the continuous alignment with what makes sense to me, heart and soul,
the continuous uncovering of what the hell it is that makes sense to me.
I embrace the paradox of the arrival and the arriving,
the mystery of being everything and still expanding.
I know it, like I know my breath.
I know it, like I know my body.
It’s realer than even those,
realer than what my senses tell me.
Realer because I have yearned for more than what my body could interpret for me,
what my ears heard,
what my eyes saw,
what my senses sensed.
There had to be more,
because the question was never answered by my physical capacities.
And to be here, where I live in the unseen, the secret of the universe,
the heart of god,
is the culmination of my humanity,
the beginning of the beginning,
the end of it all.
So it is.