As a child growing up in a rural environment, we had a little black and white tv that got 3 channels if somebody wanted to stand behind the box and hold the rabbit ears just-so, while simultaneously tap-dancing on one foot and praying to the weather gods to send a storm, because for some strange reason, reception was always better when it was raining. Go figure. It was a simpler time - when kids had no alternative but to use their imagination if they wanted to entertain themselves. So we read books and told made-up stories to our stuffed animals or baby dolls or teddy bears, or whatever we had that passed for friends to a kid growing up in the middle of bumphuk, geographical center of nowhere. In hindsight, even then we were summoning the twin (the shaman's double, the dreaming body, the higher self) - telling him or her who and what to be, filling them with all our wonder and inspiration and love of the unknown.
Whether school or job or simply the drudgery in any human life, makes little difference. Unless we use our imagination to break out of the prison, we are nothing more than nasty little turds stuck in the constipated asshole of The Machine. The Matrix. The Consensual Reality. Whatever you call it - we are its keepers and its slaves for as long as we agree to the agreement that holds us captive to our own self-limiting beliefs and practices.
Nothing here that I haven't said a thousand times before. My friends (if I have any left) would say that I'm preaching to the choir or jerking off to the same old porno mag, which is just an ugly reflection of all the things we pretend to desire, or even believe we desire, but which are nothing more than hollow placebos shoved down our throats by a society that worships YouTube and beautiful people and Facebook and shitty rap music and violence and hatred and drugs (whether street-grade or prescription makes no difference) and The Almighty Dick or The Sacred Pussy... and all of it is nothing more than the scribblings of the brute with the scythe, written on our headstones while we're jabbering and hammering our high and mighty worthless opinion to some total stranger on some social networking site, daring to think for a moment that any of it makes one iota of difference.
But of course, all that is only the tip of the diseased dick. Let's talk about why I'm really in a rotten mood right now. And, yes, for the record, I know perfectly well that none of this matters, nobody is really listening, and if they are listening out of sheer boredom, nobody gives a rat's fried ass, and that is exactly as it should be. I'm not looking for answers or even helpful suggestions. I am already well-aware that this is a solitary journey, and that the journey will eventually cost the seeker everything. That, boys and girls, is a truth that is too true - and if you think it won't happen to you, you need to rethink your faulty thinking.
The reason this path costs you everything is because once you really see through all the bullshit, all the overlays and transparencies, and you actually see the world as it is, you alternate between laughing and crying and throwing fragile things against the walls of your cell (the one which is all around you, but has no bars or windows) just to see if you can break something sharp enough to use as a blade to cut your miserable wrists. But on the heels of that absurd notion comes the counterpoint, which makes you scoop up a stray kitten, clutch it to your chest, and weep with joy until your eyes bleed, because it is the most perfect and most vulnerable lifeform on the planet. It's just a creature struggling to get through its day (just like you), and if you disrespect that lifeform or its journey, then you are no better than a green shit floating on the putrid surface of the River Styx.
If you rolled your eyes or you mumbled to yourself, "Love doesn't exist," then you are in the wrong place. It's appalling to me that a lot of the current generation doesn't believe in love. They don't "make love." They "hook up." They don't "fall in love." They "get serious." They don't make loving commitments. They sign marriage contracts.
And then they wonder why they live in a world of hollow-eyed zombies who trample one another for a flat screen tv on Black Friday. They wonder why they have no real sense of happiness or even human contentment, but must live vicariously through their children. Dance lessons. Piano lessons. Soccer practice. Little League. Girl Scouts. Boy Scouts. Church camps and smores and all the trappings of a normal life... but there is nothing normal about it because it isn't real.
Both the child and the parents lose all sense of imagination because there is nothing left to imagine, and all the participants have been reduced to the lowest common denominator of humanform existence, which might be best described as a living death. Where there is no love, where there is no passion, there is no Life.
So what the path really ends up costing the seeker is any illusion of meaning – which is perhaps more easily recognized during the holidays, when all the little 2-legged animals are rushing about, going through the motions of happiness, yet completely oblivious to the fact that they died a long time ago, when they bought into the dominant paradigm and sold their soul to the dayshine world and went back to the matrix for nothing more than that juicy steak.
There is no purpose to this rant. It exists only because I chose to call it into being – for my own satisfaction, an attempt to scratch that impossible itch which every seeker knows all too well. It's only the tip of that fatal iceberg, scrawled in blood on the surface of the ocean, quickly disappearing and altogether insignificant.
So, knowing all of this, why would the seeker want to live forever?
The answer is simple – for those who choose to see it. I could tell you, but I'm going to leave it to your imagination.
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