He stands toward the stars, staring stoned with a suffered gaze. The thoughts that cradle his imagination are being spoiled with over processed knowledge. At least this is what he thinks, and this thought alone is diluted. This exact moment’s perception of himself clenches at him like the white-knuckled clasp of a man gone mad behind the wheel of desire. He knows this inward perception of him is self-inflicted from the sound of his own inner voice—that parasitical ego—dancing mad through the tranquility of his inner peace.
He knows it will pass, much like the forgiveness of time, tomorrow holds the key to the land of milk and honey. But like desire, these spells of self-destruction were beginning to wreak havoc down every avenue in the city he calls life—his thoughts were becoming more congested, which in turn, brought everything to a standstill. Above and beyond all reasoning, he needed direct knowledge where subject and object coincided with perfection, or else risk confusing the moon with his own finger pointing at it.
He knows that all of this suffering is self-catapulted upon the sandcastle of his own conscious. As the castle erodes, should he have to rebuild it with chaos? He sometimes thinks so, but he knows that a sandcastle made of chaos is just a few farts in the wind away from his mind being turned to dust. He must settle down and allow the chaotic cloudiness to clarify itself within him via extended contemplation. Which bear in mind, he had been skimping on. The things that make you go, hmm?
He always knew the wounds of life would heal with a slight scar. That he would eventually fall back into the flesh of his own Being. Still he would always scratch at the scars upon his soul, with the sole intention of aggravating the past. From this, his psyche would never be the same, yet his thoughts told him that by revisiting the past, it might somehow send him spiraling towards the future.
While the possibility of this does exist, the depths at which he would need to seek within himself would take him deeper into the wilderness in which he already sits. This is something he believes that he is not yet fully prepared for, but we’ve yet to see the final score. The path is there, a bit hidden and maybe arid, but there nonetheless. Will he really ever know where it goes? In all honesty, he hasn’t a clue, but this is no longer a concern of his, only His.
He understands that the spiritual passage is not for the faint of heart. It’s just as well he knows that from the beginning of this journey, he must create an atmosphere about him that will carry the content of his posthumous existence, while leaving something of worth behind for his kid. He comprehends that the future of the world will not be changed by his words, but their future will be and that May in turn change the world.
This point must always be kept in mind when he starts questioning the “why” upon the fringe of all things. After all, the silent mind merely whispers at the edge of eternity, like a light fringe of foam at the lip of a wave.
He has learned that salvation is not a reward, but a very wild and normal consequence. If not to even say that it is a natural process of the inner work in which he tries to achieve for himself, as well as that of his innate disposition. This being what pushes him in the enduring direction of his voluntary search that seeks some higher purpose in the creation of his life. He knows these words are but the footsteps along this long and winding nomadic expedition in search of his Spirit.
He can and will attest that it is a path filled with treacherous steps that lean into all sorts of different hidden angles and patterns. But they are his, they have put him here with this pen in his hand. And at this point, he understands that he and this pen tilt at a geometric point where the horizontal and the vertical meet, an invisible cross of sorts. He sees that this path is built for only him. And he sees that your path is nothing like his. It is yours and yours alone. And should our paths meet let it forever be sweet.
On a good day he understands that those he thought he was helping, in the end, he came to learn that they were helping and teaching him, and he as well, himself. He is, sometimes too often filled to the brim with the facility of his own thoughts and the sublimity of his own reason. But it is time to insulate those thoughts he hates to love, while loving to hate, with the fashion of his old self again. This meant it was time he get to wherever needs to be at the present time.
It took him awhile, but he finally learned how to outwit the craftiness of his thoughts, only because the answers themselves brought about new questions. And it is today, as we mark it, that he has finally taught himself a valuable lesson within the inner work of his better habits.
It was then he laughed with a joy that shook through his body from his head to his toes. It was such a laugh that it put money in his pocket, because it paid no doctor bill. It was a laugh that made him feel alive as he was now whole. It was a laugh that howled from the depths of his core. It was then he heard providence call, and he knew he had to answer it, with no intention of hanging it up.
And by and by his smile rises with a new dawn and the sun, she rests upon his weary-eyed thoughts with clarity. The boy had laughed himself awake from the depths of a bad dream, a different man. So with that being said, I leave you with the truth.
What we say about God isn’t what counts, but what we let Him say in us; this right we grant Him to say Himself—instead of us.