Sunday, March 24, 2013

What Do You Know?

So I haven't been writing as much as I'd like to.  I haven't been creative as much as I want to be.  I have ideas; I just haven't acted on them.

I have space and time.  I don't have confidence or money.  I don't want to step on toes or stub my own.  I have a thirst for creation.  I want to explore my curiosity.  I want to see what is there, and what isn't really there.  I want to create new ways of seeing old things.  I want to make it better and more interesting, but with my own methodology.  I want to create value out of discarded objects and junk and garbage.  I want to find the new gold. 

I want to stop starting my sentences with "I".

I want to find a way to keep my wife sane and not lose my sanity in the process.  I want to create an environment where I can work without sacrificing too much-- of my sanity, my love, and my values.  Surely there is a way to work within the parameters of my mind that won't be a menace to society?  And what the fuck if it is, anyway?  Why do I even care about any of that?

I'm sensitive to acceptance and tolerance.  I want to be liked.  I want to inspire hope in others.  I want to make good, and clean up what is so dirty.  I want to drink like there's no such thing as a hangover or a blackout.  I want to seethe with euphoria, taste the elixir of gods and goddesses, and brew my own happiness and sustenance.

There is glory in realizing one's dreams.  There is glory in dreaming greatly, vastly surpassing one's own limitations and barriers.  There is so much more to this story!  We have barely scratched the surface.  We relate with relativity and know in the flow.  It's all in flux and part of the river.  Enlightenment can be drunk.  There is more to be experienced in an abundant universe.  But it all makes sense, only now, and fleetingly, in the present. 

I don't know who I'm writing this to.  I don't know why I am writing it.  But I am called to do it.  I am directed by my thoughts and passion to observe, elicit, and calculate.  To measure with the tools I have in my toolbox, and pound out a reality that exists for a strangely, organically relative amount of time, touching another's consciousness by happenstance.  Who knows who shall read this?

The constant interruption of method and practice.  The continual struggle.  To keep alive and focused on what you're doing.  Of making progress.  Of getting your work done.  Of feeding yourself, nourishing yourself.  Something is always in the way of the attempts I make to complete my journey to enlightenment.  But maybe enlightenment is actually already with me, not somewhere else that I have to find or create? 

Now.  The ultimate knowing.  Awareness.