I dreamt of Purgatory, where the most primal fears of Humankind tested even the most fearless of souls. Some passed through, but most were left behind, never to escape the perpetual torment of their earthly transgressions. One man lost his mind and bargained for Hell, where at least the fire would burn only so hot and for so long before the flesh learned to admit defeat. And the penance here in this place was for those crimes committed more against Self than Other, although its absolving influence, I'm afraid was still all too slow and subtle. For the Self can never escape the Self. This is the Gehenna in which souls in this dream gnashed their teeth and toiled-a Hell not unlike that in which they had dwelt while alive upon the earth. No rest for the wicked, perhaps? No, no rest for anyone, really. For oftentimes, especially the upright and righteous face the same torment-and even worse.
As the dreamscape continued to unfold before my eyes, suddenly, I became lucid and commanded myself to rise up past any known sky. Momentum was gaining and an exhilerating euphoria was about to bubble up and froth forth from my essence, yet I then felt the dead weight of some insurmountable Melancholia & great Anguish level itself upon me. I began to howl like some caged, depraved Beast gone quadruply mad as I plummeted back to the ground from whence I had risen. As this was happening, I felt not only a sense of impending damnation and intractable doom, but a sense of total exile from all beings, as if I was even more abhorrent than the devil himself. Then, with deft concentration of mind and sleight gesture of hand, I incited the Apocalypse.
And as the waters rose in cresting revolt and the earth exhaled her last gasp of shuddered indignation, all of creation burst forth into a redeeming and purifying inferno, as it finally learned how to see, as it finally learned how to bleed. And as the weeping and gnashing of the world reached synchronous pentameter and my soul was gently lulled to sweet sleep, I became no longer eminent or perched vertiginously above it all, instead finding myself standing, totally unscathed and alone. And I knew of only a vacuous emptiness and deafening silence as my fellow human kin ran about, screaming in cathartic pandemonium, as I stood, so stoic, so arrogant, totally unaffected by all but the actual depth and force of my Rage.
Dreamtime is when the conscience screams, asserting its need and right to be heard. Our dreams are our ally, keeping us pure and straight, never sparing the Psyche their introspective rod, bringing us up in the admonition of inner Truth and outer Justice. We attend the nightly Mass of sweet somnolence, confessing it all to our subliminal Priest, keeping vigilant watch within the Mind's abysmal well, where the water is so cold and so restorative, that lucidity grips us time and time again and we discover the concept of unconsciousness to be truly an illusory construct. For only when we sleep and dream are we, fully awake. And so I awoke, trembling and sweating in sheer Terror, for deep down I sensed that this had not been merely a dream, or a purely imaginal chimera of my own fabrication, but the portent of something to someday, in the Light of Divine Reasoning, become very real. For should I continue to shun the Saviour's good Cause and disown the Virtuous transcendence inherent in my own essence, this indeed would become of me.
A lot of people dance with fire. A lot even play with it. And then some like me become the fire. Some are not satisfied with anything short of a complete immersion into The Experience. Some must feel the burn to the core of every cell and atom in their physiognomy. Some must smell the sulfurous singe and putrifaction of hair, flesh, bone and trembling tendon. Some must feel their whole Being consumed by the Fire, before they feel they can reach that place of final release, in that their Souls may whirl above them in Dionysian ecstasy, the cool, ameliorative air seeping into every membrane, the fiery furnace of the Body and the cryogenic burn of the Mind finally quieted. Most merely dance around the flames. And then again, most completely spent countless energies evading them at all costs.
All throughout my first year of Graduate school I had managed to adopt at least the affectation of this tentative stance, but for awhile, during my months off, I underwent yet another grotesque metamorphosis. Yet I knew somehow, that I was experiencing a phenomenon which all artists undergo at some point in their development. Yet this time around still just felt different and more violent. I couldn't write. I couldn't paint. I couldn't perform or create anything for that matter. My cathartic outlets were completely closed off from me. All of the life was slowly being squeezed from my soul. And as I suffocated in my own paranormal paranoia, ghosts of remorse, disillusionment and shame threatened to brand and completely break my Spirit.
Yet this made it all the more evident to me just how strongly I had to fight this, lest I become possessed of that most immortal and depraved demon of all-the one which the Self creates solely for its own ravaging, punitive, masochistic edification. To create to destroy or To destroy yo create? And which "master" would I allow myself to apprentice for? For both creation for the sole pupose of destruction for the sole pupose of creation are justified means to the end of cathartic absolution and spiritual refinement. But even better, I knew that destruction for destruction's sake would be ontological purity at its peak, for that which lays the foundation for the Cathedral of Nature in its true design of Byzantium, anti-Manichean manifestations is the only Church undivided and thus, indestructible.
And to create merely for creation's sake, although something is always destroyed in any such act, would be destruction at most subversive acuity, in a world where the birth of Death is ever ordained and ever immanent. Yet the absurd tragi-comedy of the human condition is rarely unmasked for that which it truly is: the came rusty cog in the same tireless and tiresome wheel of every man's mental machinery-the need to transcend that irony-bricked barrier, which houses on every side, that which is natural and essential to thrivance and that which is unnatural and yet just as essential to survival. So, what would I choose? I made my choice on another humid, misty summer evening after I had finished my studies.
As I walked with reluctant command through the dense night air, the atmosphere thick with an abysmal loneliness and grief for the loss of things which cannot be regained, I fully realized how now was indeed a moment so precious and unlike any other. For I had changed, yet still remained somehow the same, what with the inescapable neuro-physiology of mnemonics haunting every mortal human soul. Yet one cannot remember to forget the wasteful and trivial pursuit of a balm that can soothe and heal a pain no longer being inflicted, independent of the mind's redundant recycling of it. And so does the future remain definite yet trapped within the titanium constructs of the Past, and with every step forward, two or more seemingly follow, mocking our every futile move. And so does Patience and Endurance become the most coveted traits of character to cultivate in the wake of this unruly former self-child. For the true battle takes place in the act of becoming, not in the finality of being. And Felicity becomes shrouded in Mystery, and the adventures of a mind, compulsive with incendiary contempt even become painfully redundant.
Not known, yet presumed to be known by so many strange faces and non-kindred souls. The mask is adorned again. And as the Sphinx utters the riddle of me I know all too well still, how only I, alone have the means to decipher it. Others can fully know only of their own answers voiced deep from within their own solipsistic recesses. The material substance of me may indeed exist within the same time-space realm as theirs, but the rest? The rest, is mine, and mine alone. Which is why so many discard the Grande Facade only to quickly become slaves to the Master of Fear and Loneliness reigning like a corrupt King or Queen within their hearts. But Alone is not to be feared, it is to be tongue-kissed. For the individual's Fate resents the cold, steel confines of pseudo-unification, instead dancing merrily to Harmonic Dissonance & Discord. For true Destiny can be born only from the Womb of Chaos.
And without a leader from within, many ill-intentioned leaders from without shall force one to follow in blind obeisance. For the one with only one leader, one Master, one King, or one Queen, shall survive and thrive. These possess a leader from within themselves. The sages of true Freedom always work from the inside-out. I pass a small cafe and enter. Everyone looks up as I enter, but I pretend I don't notice, still ensconced comfortably within my own thoughts. I take a seat at a corner table. I do not order anything. I just sit and finish dining upon the feast of my intellections. Soon, I have reached the Utopian destination of a quieted mind of inert and total receptivity and a heart filled to overflowing with relatively righteous wrath, the weaponry of Reality's loaded gun, ever cocked to implosive suicide.
The leagues of my mind converge, arriving only upon dis-embodied truths, comprehended but not fully understood. Sound and Sight pass from their thorned-crowned glory into the Crucifixion of the Profane, masquerading as The Absurd. For this Being and its modes of expression are truly only seasoned for the Art & Techne of Comedy, Tragedy being a concept we perhaps have invented merely to lend ourselves credibility and deification. And so it seems, that the Art in and of all things which one must cultivate within ourselves, lies in the Trickery inherent in the concept of Need vs. Want, and how we must trick ourselves into believing that we want what we need but do not need that which we want. If only the most pertinent information could exist, we say. Ah! But then we would invent Tragedy on even grander and more catastrophic scales. And soon enough, the Comedic just might become our God and nothing, save the profane, would be sacred.
Nihilo sanctum estne? Why must we shoot popcorn kernels at the moon when we know that Salvation is truly, a slow taming of Inertia by an inside force? For what is at rest remains at rest only through our own will. And this is so, too, when formulating loneliness and the insurmountable solipsistic gravity we are all irredeemably encumbered by. Yet still, we seek a kindred galaxy though we are repeatedly reminded of our lone star status. And when we come to grips with this existence, we cry out-Shall Eternity be thicker than Time, why must I feel so betrayed? And when there is no tangible seed with which to fertilize the Soul, a kind of spiritual parthenogenesis occurs and thus is born from this barren egg, The Separate Self, the miracle offspring of the Disunified Essence and Unus Mundi.
And then, knowing of the fragility of the Time-Space Continuum, which some call Fate, we neglect it and it soon abandons us, as our lives are possessed by the laws of Life's Asymmetry, all nonetheless continuing to revolve around a 360 degree axis. Yet what goes 'round, comes 'round can only possibly continue to meet at a moot point. And thus the synthesis of Realism & Idealism fail to be brought to fathomable fruition in this condition of a Universal Mind passively perceiving and dreaming while its Body remaining as kinesthetically indisposed. For only when the taming of inertia from within, breached in a state of critical mass occurs, can all be brought to full-revolution, so that the grieving of the loss of our former Incarnation may be completed and the loss of our grief, no longer lamented, also find common ground.
And the laws of Nature and the Meta-Physics of the Mortal Human Experiment will cause the Organism to undergo Gradualism, as old traits no longer self-preservatory will be phased out day by day by the inevitable phasing of Spiritual Evolution. This, an evolution that will defy all Logic, as it proves someday, that what goes up, cannot ever come back down again. I finally leave the cafeteria feeling possessed of more uncommon wisdom and calm than when I entered. I step out into the night air which is not so thick or concentrated anymore. I can breathe again. I have quelled the storm within myself. It is an unfamiliar feeling, and hence, a little unsettling, but I was learning to grow into it. And slowly, but surely over the next year, I would continue to evolve into the person God always meant for me to be.