Wax Poetic Upon These Waning Words of Mine

Not only do I have so few words, but the few I wrote just got eaten by the Gaia interface. I must remember not to do that... its hard enough right now for them to come out without them being erased just as I manage to write a few paragraphs.

Summary: I hurt. Bad. Right Action, courage, compassion, selflessness... all that wasn't enough to stop this deep hurt I have in my heart. I don't know how to put it into words or think it. Its just this vast deep empty sort-of-sadness that wells up. I am beyond the point now where I can live without depth and intensity. I've met this life and I'm afraid I will not survive the encounter. It's done now... I am past the event horizon. Freedom, at last: and yet...

I took some notes down, we'll sort of count it as an update to my friends here who have followed me and sympathized with me. It's all I have for now. Perhaps just beginning to write it, beginning to share it somehow, anyhow... perhaps that's enough for now.

I wrote:

I was thinking of her a lot today, someone new, someone I had considered might exist. The kind of trysts that are foretold within your heart in your darkest hours and are absent in what you’ve known to be your finest. It wasn’t anything in particular, just more thought than normal, more traffic, more noise. I couldn’t re-create the past in my brain nor predict the future, so my loneliness became acute as I worked to pass the time and ease my longing.

I hated leaving perhaps as much as she hated being left. How familiar. Leaving was the worst thing I ever had to do. It hurt so bad.

“You did the right thing,” how I tire of hearing how right the thing was. The facts add up. It is true: but the scars… no, I don’t want her anymore, and I don’t want that old city back. I miss every nuance — it is the site of my awakening. So much happened there that now that I’m in a new environment every quiet movement I make echoes in my awareness: self-awareness on a scale I have never known it. I feel high despite my low mood. Everything has distinct contrast and sharp relief.

It hurts so bad, and the feeling is death. The moment I sacrificed myself to my Higher Self, annihilated James and Became. And with that, went where I was summoned to go. This is pain, this is the nature of pain. Everything else is details. Story. And that hurts too. We can endlessly analyze my story and let the conditioning and habits affect circumstance in the present but really it was murdering the part of me that stood in the way of doing what was right. The sudden inversion of what was right into another Higher right. Horrifying changes of circumstances that on the surface had not yet the reflection of changes carved into my heart by the highest powers.

Then I learned that I had to have an identity. Defeat of the ego was only a step along the path. I had suspected this but it came into focus very recently as a truth. A major victory was actually a profound defeat. I surrendered and now the nothingness that is the leftovers of a spiritual battlefield must be repopulated by what has, in spirit, possessed me for its own: I am That.

Here comes a time of consciously building it up. I am a work of art, in my entirety, even the parts that no one else will ever see, the events, the thoughts, everything now about me has become a profound expression of the divine, the sacred task I have taken upon myself has become my Self. What awful paradox: I have become selfless only to find that the greatest care and compassion I must have is with this poor bastard I have become.

It’s just not good enough for some people to stay ‘egoless’. Not all of us can sit on mountaintops in monasteries, and not every angel can stay in heaven. Gabriel! Lucifer! How I now so painfully sympathize with you both, my ancient friends. So long have I crossed your paths in sadness.