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 distractions 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. Its 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 didnt 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 havent 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 natures 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 societys 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 loves 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 mans passionsthat 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.