Sunday, November 29, 2009

Cry Me a River

But, what if on the other side we discover that there is no enlightenment—no identity, culture, or stable consciousness. What if it’s all just a sick, twisted dream without end or anchor? What if it really is an ever-changing kaleidoscope, without purpose or pattern—an infinite scream of existential boggle, remorse, and ecstasy? Remorseful, because whatever we are deep down regrets ever having the gall to leave the sanctuary of nothingness—ever having dared to build itself a throne. Ecstatic, because the folds of renewal promise the illusion of becoming—of finally solidifying and attaining our true nature and discovering the meaning behind our eternal unfurling. What if that really is who are: an atom of a bipolar, cosmic castaway forever at sail—drifting, cresting, and receding—with no distinction between sea and seafarer; what then? Goddamn this albatross, goddamn it indeed.

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