Never could I have tasted Heaven, had I not swallowed Hell first.
Writing offers us simplicity. Without the need to make any special effort beyond the opening of our eyes and ears. This is the world known as pure impression. But there is another world built by structures of impression. It is spiritual, it is balance, and it is transformational. It hides from some but it is nonetheless real. If this realm of beauty is to exist for us, we must open more than our physical eyes to this world. We must eavesdrop with our hearts instead of our ears while undertaking a greater kind of effort. An effort that flattens the fizz of evil. The measure of our effort neither confers any reality upon this world, nor takes it away. The depth of this world is as clear as its surface, only it asks more of us.
There is a trouble that comes with writing. The trouble lays when writing with philosophical and religious undertones. It should sound like divinity talking for an eternity. But that isn’t the way it always is. We should see that writing is never anything other than one person talking. From one place in time to the next, between the spaces of his or her circumstance.
I find splendor in the splicing of a sentence. Divvied up by many little words. Accompanied by smaller syllables that crowd too close together. All the while forced into unity. Left hammered delicate as they were in the demeanor of dovetailed technique. I see my own crises averted through the words that I write.
To write is the statue of existence. The journals that we all wrote to our own hearts growing up. All the while adolescence strangling us with instability. What you wrote was instrumental to your beauty and transformation. It created your self image.
As someone who writes, I may cultivate the puzzle of my life. Offering to it animation through the trimming of my own limbs and branches. I am allowed to mystify and heighten it as I please. It is after all my creative outpost.
Writing spills from my heart as much as it does my mind. It is more or less madness, but in the higher sense, it is the scent of wisdom. To write with beauty requires a balance between the forces of the good and its wicked. Where there is no transformation there is no beauty.
It is an unfortunate regard to life. With all it’s suffering, that we must go through hell to see balance in the beauty of transformation. To suffer is the enigma that accompanies life. It’s torturing complexities allow little time to reset. Let alone solve its riddled inconsistencies. But we must endure and by enduring we find more might beneath the foundation of balance. By grasping and defeating our own hell, true transformation conspires within us.
To suffer spawns from the attention of hell, to see the joy in everything is the awareness of heaven. So what are we to do when the joy of life dissipates due to suffering? Do we suffer? Do we ignore suffering via the promise of bliss? What is bliss? Bliss is considered paradise, but what is paradise? As sure as we are man, we suffer, we ponder, and we look all over for the nurturing of heaven’s offerings. We see an inner perceived picture of paradise. What was before cannot be what we afford to be the next? The prior question in itself makes you think.
The conflict of suffering unravels through the creative process. The moral domain widened by the creative act and it seems to form in the deepest foundations of the spirit. The greatest liberty that man admits is the ability to decide when to solve moral conflicts. The ones that make his life so problematic. With freedom, we have the ability to make our own choices about what is worse and what is better.
With these choices, we see that freedom is a conflict between the pure and the impure. One could even go as far to say that this is when tragedy and divinity intersect. To think with only your heart in these moments. Is when transformation evens out the pluralities of being.
Does the source of the pristine not spring from the heart? If it doesn’t? Then find it I must, the immaculate source of the self I must find, it must be within me. Is not everything else deliberated as a detour in the direction of getting lost? The question alone makes us suffer without even knowing it.
I figured out a long time ago that by writing, I found balance in suffering. It was such thinking that brought about the usual congestion. With these growing thoughts I fell into a fit of passion. For a person that carries my heart upon my sleeve. When I speak from my mind, the confusion is as quick as my excited southern accent. But it is in my confusion, where I see my own wholeness. In my perplexity, I see a source of transformation—a creative fire.
We are all too often scared to speak from our hearts. This is because we worry that the instinct isn’t of itself, but instinct is, and always has been absolute. Instinct is at the core of our inward nature. Without it, transformation would have no significance.
For our inner nature to enlighten in the purest sense means the attainment of beauty. The highest end is beauty and not goodness, for the simple fact that goodness bears the stamp of law. If there is anything that will save the world, it will be beauty, so much so that all will see it as beautiful. The Kingdom of God is beauty. Love is beauty. Writing, art and all other acts of creativity are mere symbols of beauty. Attained and refracted through the spirit of our creative will. Beauty is the transformation of the world, where salvation sits silent yet spoken. Beauty is the source that springs from the law of love…
I close my eyes and say a little prayer. As I wander off to sleep, I see flashes of flitted flames expand, as they were within my heart. I imagine as they aspire to touch upon another light. A light beyond but within. For a moment it flashed still upon an eternal intensity of yearning. Carried away by consummation.
BeLove © 2018