On The Substance Of Life

Long before the road to hell was paved, man was more than able to find his own way to Heaven through the nature of himself.

It is a befitting attitude to engage amongst any consideration pertaining to the better tasting substances of life, those which intertwine modesty with the miraculous—minus the madness—which might I add is often easiest to find. It is in the nature of our being to cradle with our thoughts, certain testimonies that are measured by the height of our curiosity. This nature, in a way, finagles with the fact that creation has always been the very foundation of our “being,” and from it we must build our existence.

I have often spoke of finding one’s self, but I’ve come to grasp that the meaning of life is to in fact, in the constructive sense, create yourself. It is in the nature of creativeness to offer hints of clarity that help to keep the mind clear of unnecessary debris that must be swept clean. There is no better time than now to clear said debris. Long before the road to hell was paved, man was more than able to find his own way to Heaven through the nature of himself.

 Whoever compels you to go one mile, go with him two.

Matthew 5:41

Into The Mystic

In as much as we are possible, we should strive to resemble the idea that He had of us when He created us. As should we be expected to laugh and smile with our worries as they recover from self-susceptibility. Worries aren’t something that are to be handled with the constant maneuvering of them to and fro, between that of suffering and sentimentality. Worries are to be handled in the sense of all that is lackadaisical. A stumble here and a fumble there, but it is in the delight for life’s spontaneity that leaves the spiritual energy of love forever hiding in plain sight.

Life is too damn rigorous in itself. Let alone should we allow it to leave us left worried all the damned time. Life and its more delicate moments are to be treated to the delicacy of creativity. Life is about creating from the core characteristics of our being, getting more centered with the edge from which we leap, which of course is considered to be love.

How delicate life is when death doesn’t spare a dime of mercy? Time is way too short to worry about what others may think. Death is always right around the corner and as precious as life is, why hide it’s beautiful touches of madness? With that being said, even deeper into a thought let us sink.

“Maybe I was wrong to grow up at my own pace and for feeling underwhelmed at my own choices, to choose what I did when I did. Yet these are the circumstances of who I am today. Nowadays, I’m content with being a child at my core. I’ll be the first to tell you, this is the most beautiful part of “being,” because without our childhood, to us, there would be no core. At our core sits the beauty of childlike chaos; it’s how you handle it as you get older, which will speak volumes of your character and exemplify how you treat and react to others.”

“Is it not up until about nine or ten years old we knew of nothing but that of unconditional love? We are all children at heart, are we not? The heart knows nothing of age. We are just as nurtured and matured by foolishness as we are by goodness, and by all of the random acts of kindness that we have, without thought, accumulated over the span of our lives. Its the simplicity within this wholeheartedness of understanding that keeps those dark days somewhat sunny. These actions even left unseen are eternally adolescent and wild.”

“From my less than critical decision making throughout life, I came to see that by creating from the deepest layers of me that I was beginning to truly feel “free” from me. It was like something was being excavated from the deepest depths of me, uncovering lodes of gold, the kind no “inward” coal miner ever suspected to exist. There is not a thing more romantic than the semantics of the shedding of who we are from the layers of our own and especially that of the societal gold standard”

Sparks Of A Touched Soul.

“It shouldn’t be so hard to imagine that the ten billion inhabitants of this rock we walk upon would set out upon the same sort of self-exploration. But it is, and will continue to become more difficult, but there is hope yet, but first the sun of subversion must set. It is unfortunate these days that thought is being manufactured beneath the shadow of shady tactics leaving most to be worried about what exists within the toxic perception of their own collective ego.”

“So it is rather for now that we are left to just a small army of those who truly hope and pray for Heaven on Earth. It is true that with universal self-understanding, all of humanity would be given backstage access to that of inner bliss, as they come to approach the cliff overlooking the meaning of life. And as I stand now teetering, it is from the edge I jump into the depths of Heaven on Earth.”

“It would be a certain sort of pleasantry to see all of those whom are wrapped up in the elegance of their fur lined egos, lining the streets to have their souls scrutinized. Maybe Heads of State would come out in soft parades to reveal intimate state secrets with the desire to better humanity, all the while confessing their own dreams for the inner improvement of themselves. And we may come to find revolutionaries in the streets preaching the revolution of consciousness, while hearing about the pseudo-Christians who urged the (moral) slaying of each one of themselves so that Christ can indeed succeed their own ego. Hopefully businessmen would surprisingly escape from those venture capitalist ways and run to the emotional stock exchange to trade in their valuable assets for eternal values. Maybe academia would tear up its diploma to board the myth of the ship Argo, while oilmen drill for the eternal black gold that springs from the kingdom of Self.  It is then that may we see converted chemists extract several megatons of spiritual energy from the atomic rubble of war.”

We’re still a long way. However, Heaven on Earth doesn’t only reveal itself in our immediate surroundings—it emigrates.

The Beauty Of Spiritual Energy.

In Closing

Genuine dissent must always keep a human measure upon the height of righteousness. It must be free and spontaneous. Or what the hell? Let us just call it wild. The slighter gestures of spiritual bewilderment are often the most significant, because they are not premeditated.

True, he who dissents alone may confine the element of dissent to words, to inward declarations, to poetic thoughts, to symbolic gestures. He too may fail to act. Gestures are perhaps not enough. Perhaps they are to the eye, a slight of hand, and perhaps to the heart they may fit just right. And perhaps it is to hope that over time these tokens of appreciation will once and for all, force the hand of ego upon its flight of ascension away from that everlasting inner eternal fight. The truth of this is divine in nature, this is when we can truly taste the sweetness of honey in the substance of life.

It is for now must I go on and get to where my sanity has found the perfect fit. Time has grown of the essence. The reality of summer’s looming swell of chaos has beckoned the call of the beast below. We thank you from the bottom of me for taking the time to read. Godspeed.


Sanity is the beauty that hides behind madness put to good use.

Pinnacle Of Purpose v.3

In life, wisdom only has value if it helps us to overcome some obstacle that stands in the way of our dreams.

A sliver of sunlight is all that remains as I wander into the darkness of this chasm, I do not expect this light to last for much longer.  It is cold, muggy and damp down here. There is no path down here except for a craggy rock formation that resembles a half constructed spiral staircase.  The solitary mechanism leading me through these depths is a suspicion that somewhere I can find my intuition and shadow it all the way to safety.  I come upon a concealed corner and I peek around it with caution.  Wouldn’t you know it? There it is, my intuition barely reflecting a likeness to a light of hope through a narrow hallway.  The maze of hazy reflection looks to be an opening towards a way out of this unfamiliar underworld, or it could be a direct path to hell.

The flashlight flickers violently against the constricted chamber of the chasm, meanwhile shadows start to play tricks with my mind.  These shadows take a toll on my equilibrium and the scene around me spins until I fall to my knees, spun.  I almost pass out on the way down.  From my fallen position, I begin to feel that I am not alone down here.  I feel a strong sensation of another presence and it washes over me. My anxiety tackles me to the ground.

It is completely dark now.  My body blooms with dread and a cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck, only manifesting panic into a deeper state.  There is something about complete darkness that arouses the hidden fears that have been hiding in our souls since we were children.  I feel all around the ground looking for my flashlight and all I feel is little metallic pieces spread about in a scattered manner with a few batteries to boot.  The horror becomes unbearable while the simplicity of breathing vanishes.

My thoughts turn to the worst and my worry overthrows my entire thought process.  In the face of death I start to feel pity for myself.  What would my family and friends feel in the actuality of my disappearance?  Would they send a search and rescue team?  How long would it take for them to find me?  Another wave of terror moves over me.  No one has any clue where I am.  I told no one of my plan except my four-year-old son.  I told him the day before that I was going to climb a mountain, although I never said which one.  Then I think about him and the tears begin to flood my eyes while I envision his fatherless life flash before my eyes.  Would he think somewhere in the back of his mind that I ran away from my responsibility of raising him?  The presence I felt earlier is back again, only this time it seems to be inside me.  It is stronger than it was before.  My heart starts beating with perseverance.  An unknown strength lifts me to my feet.  “Just breathe,” there was the voice again.  This time though I know exactly where it came from.  It came from within me.


I expel all of the air out of my lungs, emptying all of the fear that filled me minutes ago.  Then, I inhale, slow and determinate, allowing confidence to settle inside my thoughts for the mission that lies ahead.  I do this for quite some time and I can feel clearer thoughts coming in waves that are crystallizing with a vision that resembles a ladder that I have never in my life seen.  I inhale one last time, only this time I concentrate on allowing unbridled love and harmony with the world to enter my body and before I can exhale, I see a light and it guides me.

The light in which I must reach looks to be some two hundred odd feet atop this cryptic wall that stands before me.  If I were to get halfway up and fall, death would be eminent, either quickly, or slow, torturous and lonesome.  I focus on the path towards the light and put the paralyzing fear behind me.  I climb towards my meaning with all of my strength. The climb is easier than I thought it would be.  The wall is formed with many cavities that allow me to gain significant heights with little effort.  I was almost to the top when I came to the final hurdle.  The only way out of here was to jump over to the ledge behind me about six feet across and two feet higher than were I stood.  There is no room to get a running start and absolutely no room for error.  My hands are already bleeding with a bearable pain from the jagged edges of the wall.  I tighten the straps of my pack around my shoulders and tighten my shoelaces.  I do not affix my thoughts to the consequences of what may happen next, instead I just jump.

In life, wisdom only has value if it helps us to overcome some obstacle that stands in the way of our dreams.  I climb out and bathe in the sunlight without a thought in my head for almost an hour.  Finally, I push through the glory of surviving death and I climb to my feet.


I can see the summit from where I stand now.  I sit down and inhale the mountain air with a deepness that consumes me with an extraordinary amount of love for life.  Not only my own, but every single aspect of life that walks this earth.  I see the undignified process in which the human mind falls into the trap of might over right—we are not superior to other species—and it sickens me to stomach.  So much that I become queasy and begin to dry heave.

We are the only species that is aware that our death is imminent and because of that we allow empathy to give way to fear and apathy.  The latter spreads through the soul like wildfire and destroys the goodness that was once the foundation of philosophy.  Men become despots and look to protect their namesake with violence, war, greed, and gluttony, by destroying love.  Little to they know, that when the manifestation of love is interrupted, the one responsible for that interruption becomes beholden for its recreation and the rebirth of the original manifestation.  I prefer to not sound like a broken record but it is cyclical.

Death is not something that we should hide from instead we should allow it to motivate us to do the best with what we can with our lives.  Life is a battle that must be fought with worthy causes and not inflated wars.  It could be considered vanity to act in such a way to prevent one’s name from being forgotten by performing good works, but vanity is merely an inward reflection of one’s self in the mirror of good and evil.  When we become aware of the significance of death, we become braver and we seek further heroic conquests that better our soul because we have nothing to lose—for death is certain and when we no longer fear this, we find perfect harmony. You see death is our constant companion and it is death that gives our life meaning.

I take my last cigarette and light it.  I take one last drag and savor it for awhile.  This will be the last time I taste the conundrum of a cigarette in my life.  I crush the lifeless stick on the rock below me.  Life gestures my direction and I must proceed with the path that has been laid before me without any personal vice that has the power to extinguish my soul. I put my backpack on, and I start the final ascent towards the pinnacle of my purpose.

The sky wraps around my being and I am overcome with a sentiment of the endless Quality in everything that surrounds me. Everything, from the blue that paints the sky to the wind and her capricious breeze that holds me steady every step of the way.  Every thought that goes through my head carries a hint of gospel with them and they turn to the glory of the God.


Back in the chasm, when I first felt the presence, it is something that I’ve always known was in there, you know, in the depths of me.  There just hasn’t been any entity that was capable enough to extract it from me.  I, of course, know that I am the only one that can become who I am to be, but sometimes, the most unexpected ray of sunshine plunges from the heights of heaven for us to bask in, if only for a moment and in the blink of an eye—forever starts to make sense.

I believe that God was manifest in the darkness of primitive mankind, in the storms and the cavernous depths of the soul.  Man started witnessing God’s hand in all creatures, as well as the beauty of Mother Nature, the trees, flowers, waterfalls too, then they saw his evidence in the cold winds, the rain, the sunset, and the snow.  You see, the spirit really does rest in all things if you are willing to believe.  There have been difficult times when God seems to hide beneath the catacombs of evil, I believe this is his way of allowing wickedness the chance to transform itself into hope.  One thing is for sure—he has never ceased to exist inside the heart of each and every one of us and the love that makes it beat. Remember wherever the treasure you seek in this life is, that to is where your heart is, that is where through good works you will find the importance of love and the perpetual bliss we all hope still exists.

I walk through an atrium built in the expression of granite.  I look toward the summit and a presence, stronger than anything I’ve ever felt, stops me dead in my tracks.  My heart starts to flutter and a feeling consumes me from the depths of my core.  The feeling cleanses my soul as it leaves my body and stretches outward over the land that surrounds me, this mountain, this wind, throughout Mother Nature and all of her beautiful caprices—spreading like a wildfire that cleanses all souls with purity instead of wreaking the havoc of hatred.  It has only one purpose and that is awaken the love rests inside all of humanity.  It cannot be stopped; it will not be stopped, for love has risen once and it will rise again.  I take another step and the view from this summit is the most spectacular, I have ever seen.  For once, I finally see me.


Author’s Note:

The history not only of thought, but also of opinion, action, and consciousness too, of morals, aesthetics, politics, is to a large degree just a history of dominant preconceived patterns that follow certain paths. Whenever you look at any particular civilization, you notice that the most characteristic writings, or any artistic fragment, reflect particular paths of life. Those whom are responsible for these writings—or paint these pictures, or compose the most beautiful pieces of music—are dominated by the patterns of these paths. In order to identify with our civilization, in order to explain what our civilization is, I feel it is important to isolate the dominant pattern of these paths, to which present day culture obeys, and attack it head on.  See you soon.

-Be Love


Pinnacle Of Purpose v.2

I divvy up the pros and cons of one way versus the other and before I know it I am a hundred feet higher than a moment ago.

I have been rambling upon this high road for some time now and I must mention how well preserved it is. I appreciate how pleasing the aesthetic path intertwines with the rugged landscape that wraps around me. The dirt is fresh and the nature of this trail is sparkling with unspoiled conservation. The mind behind its maintenance schedule I imagine to be comprehensive and able to delegate specific duties accordingly. The loose packed earth beneath my feet bounces with a bit of buoyancy. My feet and their tenderness breathe a sigh of relief in lieu of solid ground. The trail has been advancing with moderate gains of elevation and exhaustion turned back towards the car a mile or so ago. This reestablished motivation proves itself as positive and I climb at my leisure towards the pinnacle of me.

I have finally settled my mind from its previous mishaps and refocus upon the technique of breathing slow. The upward slope demonstrates a steady approach that allocates the compass of my breathing back to a more north and south direction. My steps turn up the tempo and my stride covers more ground in lessened time. As my confidence grows with the rising elevation, my thoughts transition towards the translucent touch of creative process.

As of late, I have been spending so much time in my head trying to create that I feel destined to get trapped. These thought traps belong to a state of paradox, because they have their roots in both the good and the evil aspects of creativity. They exist with the sheer tenacity of balancing each other out. These thoughts when shaped by goodness are blessed with the creative process that is graced in morality. Then there are those thoughts that when shaken with sinful ingredients that prove to be injurious to the creative process altogether. The latter is not thought to be true to the nature of beauty and creation.

As my mind ventures deeper into this wilderness, my senses seem to develop into a disoriented state. Is my mind working so fast that it is pulling away from the receptors of sensory? I clear my head of distraction’s debris. This is followed by the sensation of a chilly, dampening effect stifling my right foot. The path without any heed or warning was now a small stream, stemming from a mountain spring.

I stop for a moment and pull off my shoe, balancing on a wiggled rock, I recycle its soaked contents right back into the spring-fed stream below me. I proceed to wring out the moisture wicking sock. I lay them down and allow them the time to dry. I sit on the rock next to them and devour another apple. The sun is crisp and the wind steady. The view I have for this lunchtime matinee has got to be one of the most memorable moments these eyes will remember, even more so when shut.

I shut my eyes and rearrange my head into thinking about the substance of a mountain spring. Bodies of water that spring up from underground like the one below me are measured to be sacred. The water from these springs is thought to have healing properties that are applied through the spiritual presence of a guardian angel. It’s of no wonder why I feel so content and comforted just sitting here for an undistributed amount of time. I go to stand up with the meager intent of not nodding off for an afternoon slumber. Before I get up, I whisper a few words in the direction of due north, followed by restoring the comfort of protection to my right foot. The cooling effect of the damp sock feels amazing but I am suspicious of the inevitable blisters that lie ahead in the dampened arena of hiking socks.


I notice a stairwell of granite that cuts straight upwards and through the sereneness of a switchback alley. I divvy up the pros and cons of one way versus the other and before I know it I am a hundred feet higher than a moment ago. This way, while exerting a lot more energy, should cut a half-mile or so off this leg of the trail. I harness my breathing and my thought process aligns with another cycle of rhetoric rap shackling.

I ponder with the discreet conflict that occurs in the creative process. The conflict between creativity and the pursuit of moral perfection is one that has gotten my attention in this recent stanza of life. In the pursuit of principled perfection all a man does is absorb into his ego and concentrates on his own preservation and salvation. When the process of candid creativity takes over a man, it is an experience that is supposed to make him forget himself. The experience alone takes him to a higher habitat in the world. The creative process has its roots in Paradise before the Fallen world. Creativity is suggested to inspire the artist to forget his own progress and sacrifice his identity. Creation and its celestial development has always been the beating heart of heroism.

Heavy breaths echo through my ear canals and I have to stop and breathe with more depth and delivery. It almost feels as if I am exhaling out of my ears. The view and the immense beauty that accompanies it, only enhances the clarity of my vision. Even though my thoughts are picking from the unripened fruits of my mind, I do feel more in tune with my own imagination and the surroundings in which I see things is much more sharp and significant. I drown my parched demeanor in ice-cold water and quench my thirst for knowledge with one huge gulp. I take out the camera and snap a few photos. This helps calm my mind because when I open different avenues through the creative process, it allows another approach for inspiration to flow with the force of positivity, instead of eroding the process in which one chooses to be creative.

I contemplate upon a wildflower for a substantial amount of the day that didn’t hold time hostage. The thoughts I left upon that wildflower are better left for the universe to conspire over. I start back up the hill again and I begin to feel a different sense of freedom that I have never felt. I climb at the pace of contentment and splendor.


What I am beginning to feel can only really be described as an overflowing energy that is coated in creative goodness, and it welcomes the strongest of possibility towards the building of new and grounded realities. The air of this newfound freedom buries the negative fixations I have often placed upon my own spirit, deep in the darkness of my self-interpreted struggles with sin. The freedom that is ringing in my ears at the moment, replaces the vicious negative cycle with the burden of positive reinforcement and the circulative quality of redemption. It is within the positivity of the creative process where the contents that are the most valuable in life are found locked away in a tomb. A tomb that is a lot closer to you than you think. The love inside you is the only key you will ever need.

I arrive upon the home stretch of the climb, or at least I believe it to be. The even ground is a sight for sore eyes, or legs on this particular day. The trail is pristine upon this plateau. It looks as though no one has beaten a path through this isolated wilderness. I feel a gust of spiritual sobriety move through me. Now that I think about it, I have not crossed paths with anyone. The eeriness of this awareness starts to kick in and I realize that I haven’t crossed paths with another soul on this trip. Have I? This stumps me with significance and I fall upon the stubbornness of a tree stump. I light a joint in hopes of stumbling upon a kindred and wandering soul.


The sun and her warmth take me to a stream where the water is cool and flowing with mystic purpose into the wisdom of the mountain. I am walking along the small embankment when I see her. “Finally someone else,” I say to myself. I walk over to introduce myself and I stumble into the stream. Well at least I got her attention, I think to myself.   I go to reestablish my footing and she is already there to help me up.

“Thank you,” I say humiliated.

“Are you hurt?” she asks concerned.

With confidence I say, “Only my ego.”

“I bet,” she says laughing.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Charmeine,” she speaks with the air of an angelic voice.

“Are you alone?” I ask.

“No, there are more of us than you would believe,” she says with certainty.

“Have you been here long?” I ask amidst confusion.

“Since dawn,” she says with purpose.

“How much further until the summit?” I inquire, still confused.

“As long as it takes you to get there,” she delivers with wisdom.

“Wait, what?” even more confused than before.

“Just wake up and keep going,” she says. “You are so close to finding…”

I open my eyes to a piercing sun and I sense the saturated surprise of an impromptu nap. I look around for any sign of life, especially her. I am not at all surprised by the lack thereof, instead I notice a flock of birds, as I gaze in their direction, they start to sing a lullaby written in a verse of nature’s harmony as they fly towards the summit. I recollect myself and proceed to giddy up this home stretch of purpose.   I cannot help but smile in light of the most pleasant dream.

This stretch seems to have seen a lot of traffic over the years. One must believe that the closer you get to the summit the more similar these paths are upon the weathered landscape of belief and quality. My thoughts turn anxious and I have to remind myself that I must quiet the mind and let the moment sink in. I do this with a rather quick sequence of reflection and it works. My mind is relaxed and I gather all of the mental supplies needed for the next endeavor into the beauty of creative love.


Love and her realm have held a mystic manner within themselves since the beginning of time. Love is both abstract and concrete. Love is from the source of creativity. Love is created out of nothing; therefore love is created out of freedom. Without freedom there is no such thing as creative activity. Without creativity there is no such thing as love. Like the first awareness of love in a soul, there is the creative conception when the soul hears the symphony, perceives the poetic verse, and becomes aware of the discovery of presupposed bliss. Love is the interaction of grace and freedom.

When the creative process is lacking love, it trickles towards emptiness and the soul is terrified of emptiness. Boredom spawns from emptiness and this generates into the evil empirical desires of lust and diabolical retribution. It is a constant struggle to defeat boredom by means of goodness and virtue. This is a struggle that I have confronted first hand, this is the main reason I am where I am in this exact moment.

The mountain rises ahead of me without intimidation. I can sense that I am getting closer to where I need to be because the sight of blue sky is becoming more filled with clouds than the terrain is of rock and granite.   I stop for a moment to tighten my shoelaces and take a drink of water. My feet feel as refreshed as my mind and I proceed forth on my journey.

The inner creative act and its fiery impetus are meant to leave the heaviness of society behind it, with the hope of overcoming the obstacles developed by said society. Through this, there will come an external realization that this act is subject to society and the original act can and will become restricted by it, yet there is always hope through courage and strength that the creative act gets past the stagnation of society’s mindset. It is a characteristic of personality that we carry the capability of breaking through the primary source of society’s stubborn demeanor. If the creative activity is spiritually authentic and not determined by social influence, then the pursuit of righteousness becomes representative of its paradisiacal conception. An authentic creative process alone can save the soul from being twisted by arid abstract virtue and the abstract ideals that have been slanted towards the rule of law. The idea of love is layered in truth, goodness and beauty. Therefore love and the creative process must cease to project itself upon the rules and norms of law; instead they must continue to become a vital force of the inner creative fire.


The love that is lacking an inner creative fire is not love but lust. Lust is the presence of poison running through love’s veins. Passion lives in both love and lust and can be manipulated as either good or evil. Lustful passion is evil and has its roots in original sin. I would like to discuss perhaps the most fatal of man’s passions—that of sex.

I feel it necessary to attain this passion as positive because it is a passion that can easily enter an enlightened and sublime form instead of being uprooted and destroyed. Sex is simply impossible to destroy, and it would be useless to concentrate upon its existence with an unconstructive struggle. Without sex there would be no life.  Without the unbound love of a woman, man would be left to rot in hatred’s cage of hell.

Every heart-shaped hint of creative inspiration that has a deep spiritual feeling overcomes and revolutionizes against the sinful struggle of sex. True and unbound love is the only way to overcome the sinful sexual passion that tortures us all.   True love and the sexually vital energy it encounters is sublime and becomes a source of inspiration in the creative process. In the end, a sexless life is as bad for the creative process as is the waste of vital energy in the lustful desire for sexual passion.

The hue of blue that encompasses me at this elevation is as mesmerizing as it is meandering. I have to sit down just take it all in. I can see for miles in every direction. I feel more in touch with my reality and myself than I have in my forty-year life span. I take off my backpack and dig for my cigarettes, I light one and it tastes like death, but for some reason, I enjoy it. I really should quit smoking these things but in the absence of alcohol over the past month, I find myself still hooked on this soothing vice. I think to myself about all that I have felt and considered on this magnificent day hike.   My mind has never traveled this deep into its own wilderness. These considerations have never crossed my mind until today. I adjust my head back upon the emphasis of breathing with consistency again and I stand up slowly, my legs are beginning to feel like jelly and I trudge onward.

Before man was filled with lust and his thirst for knowledge put its hands around the throat of love, it was considered to be the vital energy of the universe. It was, and I believe it still to be, capable of converting evil passions into creative forces. It must be noted that the thirst for knowledge is love directed in a certain way different than that of the ethics of morality. The same could be said to be true of philosophy, which means love of truth.  Passion became creative through Eros, so therefore creativity, whether good or evil, could be considered erotic.

Love can only transform evil passions into creative forces if it is regarded as a value in itself and not as a means of salvation. Love in the sense of goodness proves to be useful for the salvation of the soul and becomes a source of life-giving energy. Love is the fountain of creative energy and is of creativity itself. Love is the radium applied to the cancerous spirit in which it destroys the infection of hate and its ingredients of evil. The love within the creative process calls for action in regards to the concrete comprehension of truth, goodness and spirituality. One cannot love man alone for his qualities. In this respect, love is a grace that is given freely amongst all nurtured life, not for qualities, and expects nothing in return. Love is a gracious and radiating energy that fringes upon the outskirts of bliss.

I stop dead in my tracks. I look around and there is no path under my feet, just cleverly hidden granite that manages to keep me in line with my own path. Two feet in front of me lays a crack in the mountain. It’s fissure is as big as a couple of football fields. I have finally come upon the chasm of me and I must cross it.

To be continued.

-Be Love-


Pinnacle of Purpose

Then I was standing on the highest mountain of them all, and round about beneath me was the hoop of the world. And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit.

The mountains have been whispering to me my entire life.  I just didn’t listen to them with lucidity until a few weeks ago.  It is not guaranteed, but it is possible that what I have been searching for most of my life will be discovered atop this pinnacle of purpose that rises before me.  It is my hope that this mountain of reason, logic, quality and all of the other fine philosophical points in between, waits with discovered determination at the summit of me.

My momentum swings sideways with the twisting and never-ending switchbacks.  One foot in front of the other with my own steadfast approach is the pace at which I choose for this present line.  I turn my focus to the method in which I breathe.  A deep inhale follows, right behind it a long and drawn out exhale.  This dovetail technique of breathing seems to allow me the prospect of bypassing exhaustion altogether.  Who would have thought that apposite breathing was so cooperative?

There is something I begin to feel stir through my feelings as I gain elevation.  It’s almost like my mind is lifting itself above the flat land endemic of confusion.  I stumble with acuteness upon Cathedral Lake.  The serenity of her stillness empties my mind of all thought for a few moments.    

I see a rock.  It is shaped with the expediency of a lawn chair.  I start walking towards it and I find myself staring into the mirrored clarity of this wilderness lake and observe the reflection of the mountain behind me and then myself.  The sensation of insignificance that I feel, forces me into a guarded posture.  I shake the shit out of my head and deep within a feeling of insignificance, I have absolute composure for the first time in my life.

“It’s when the mind is pure and still that it can put all points of perspective right and under the shroud of heaven.”

I see everything with a different set of eyes these days.  I try and listen for all of the things I cannot hear and everything becomes much more clear.  I stand and walk to the lake’s edge.  I touch the surface of bliss with my foot and the effect is gentle and flowing.  It ripples with a delicate pattern across the unbroken surface of eternity.  It does not interrupt the stillness, instead it transcends the way in which I visualize the value of life’s quality that surrounds me.  It feeds my satisfaction and I stand with more gumption than I had moments ago.


A recollection of a past occurrence flickers with the kind of vividness that exists only in a memory, which makes me grin.  The future seeps through and I see it as a mere plan that is meant to collide with the present at any given moment.  The only reality that I face is standing right in front of me, two thousand feet in extended elevation.  This reality is no longer intimidated by time or fatigue.  The path ahead of me is not a means to an end; it is the way to which it all makes sense.

I devour an apple and proceed to rip open a generic fueled granola bar.  I examine the wrapper and the word backcountry, spins my head into a deeper cycle.  The backcountry should be considered in a way that exemplifies the environment of theological thought.  All civilizations and theocracies travel through this same backcountry of thought, with the same divine denouement waiting perched atop the same pinnacle of purpose.  The difference lies in the many trails that distinguished theologies have developed to reach their own summits of sanctity.  The trails all lead through the same stream of consciousness but the terrain one must cover varies with significance.  The views are diverse when approached from different routes.  It must also be conceived that the views from the differing summits are identical and the bliss experienced is also constant amongst all of the distinctive theological dogmas.  It is also the strides in relation to the pace at which we climb the ever-changing terrain that provide us with clandestine clarity.

I caught a thought earlier on the hike.  The thought that erosion is starting to give notice alongside these high-trafficked trails of serenity.  Erosion is a definitive process.  It is a process that while slow and methodical it can have devastating effects on the well-defined landscape that once thrived in its absence.  Much like the effect it has within the landscape of a mountain, erosion also has an adverse effect the mental landscape of elevated thought.  I call it mental erosion, because as time keeps chugging along so do the ideas and the philosophical undertones of those ideas.  The trails that have been beaten by the feet of seekers of truth can become so eroded that they must be shut down and closed for the sake of safety and the sanity of other seekers.

Over the course of history there have been men that deem these trails impassable, they then reroute these trails.  This is done because man no longer trusts or believes in the quality of the original path.  Mental erosion is a process that crawls, but by logic it is the only course of action that allows societies to be situated by moral beliefs of what is right and wrong.  By doing this, the very definition of quality has proven itself as undefined.  

I finish my snack and tighten up the laces on my shoes.  I gather myself and focus on the breathing technique again.  I take a gander at the path ahead and agree with myself that I’ve always been the type of person to wander off of the beaten path.  There are some of us that prefer to approach the less traveled route and make our own leeway in the direction of our singular pinnacle of purpose.  I look around and decide that I must employ my pioneering disposition and this leads me to the decision that I have to blaze my own trail up this mountain.  And that is what I do.  

Mountains are to be ascended with as little exertion as possible.  It sounds foolish but it is true.  It is also true that one should not hold any amount of aspiration for the sole purpose of bragging rights.  Mountains should be respected not defeated.  One doesn’t conquer the mountain once they reach the summit they conquer themselves.  The reality of your inward nature manages the pace at which you climb.  There is an equilibrium that exists between restlessness and exhaustion. It is the binding of this balance that once achieved the sky is the limit, or in this case, the summit of Mt. Tallac.


As I gain elevation, the thinner air loosens my skeptical thoughts and I start to feel more aware of a transcendent presence.  I feel more in tune with myself. I believe this is because the deeper I venture into this wilderness, the louder the voice of reason echoes within my mind.  I begin to isolate myself with the distinctive and widening environment that encompasses me.  Out of nowhere, I become more aware of the significance of how insignificant I a really am.   The environment in which we live embraces its own philosophical concept.  The natural world is not something we should strive to control and influence for our own gain.  After all, Mother Nature is God’s muse and if we are manipulating her for her resources, are we not manipulating God for his continued hospitality?  The momentum behind living well is equivalent to how comprehensive we preserve the roots of God’s Country.

I look around and realize that I have found my way back onto the established trail.  I am rather content with this because the path I chose was a little steeper than what my comfort level is used to.  I am also glad because the granite field before me is ridden with hidden crevices that could put a damper on any given ankle’s daily routine.

As I continue climbing, I forget about the breathing technique and I feel the suffocating effects almost in an instant.   I have to stop and rest for a moment.  I am doing everything I can to catch my breath, finally after minutes of heavy breathing, I turnaround and think about giving up.  I could just turn around and head home, call it quits, nobody knows I’m up here, so no one can be disappointed in me.  I see a path about a hundred feet higher in elevation than where I stand now.  It looks a little less traveled than the path I am on now.  It is also almost at a ninety degree pitch to get up to the path.  I think long and hard about what I should do.  I dust the motivational muse off of my head and start heading back down the mountain. That’s when I heard the voice again. “Keep climbing,” it said. I spin around looking for any sign of life and that’s when I was greeted with the most unparalleled panoramic view of purpose.

In seconds I found myself on the elevated path.  I am on the high road and it is high time to finish this journey of discovery.

To Be Continued…

*This post is an ongoing branch of one of my first posts “Be Wilderness”.  If you haven’t read it yet please go scroll down the main page and read it.