An observer more astute than I noted that life is a process of having your illusions destroyed, one after another, until you die.
I read that recently and knew it to be true.
My mind is a mercurial trickster: a spinner of phantasmagorias that has enticed and seduced me with mirages and wild imaginings which I have long crystallized into illusory beliefs.
I cringe at the times I humiliated myself by running down a fruitless path, capriciously chasing after some juvenile fancy, while drunk on the self-assurance that I would cross the bridge to glory, only to dead-end at a wall of nothingness.
I know I’m not the only one who’s wasted precious years of my life like that — far from it.
The difference, I suppose, between myself and others is that when I’ve reached that point of humiliation — and I have, many times over — I’ve admitted my error and turned around, retracing my steps back to my place of solitude and retreat.
Most people, I’ve observed, remain on the familiar path and insist on their correctness until their final breath, pacing over the same worn ground while foolishly casting hope for a different outcome, lest they ever acknowledge their own ignorance and folly.
After years of futile wandering, having collapsed from mental exhaustion, what I now see clearly is that every path is an illusion.
There is no grand road to walk — only tiny movements in one direction or another, guided by whatever instruction is given in the moment.
The movements themselves aren’t constant: much of life is meant to be spent in the absence of motion, suspended in silence, waiting in expectation.
The problem, of course, is that serenity isn’t exciting. I must admit that in the nursery room of my mind, I’ve often found the essential retreat quite boring.
It’s more enticing to spend your days running through a disorienting maze of deafening distractions than to sit in the simplicity and stillness of truth.
Groundedness requires discipline and restraint: the hard-earned fruits of humility and endurance — infinitely rewarding but thoroughly unsexy in their countenance.
It’s no coincidence that those who derive their power from casting spells have warped “woke” into a pejorative utterance, and that so many under their sorcery have embraced the contortion.
It’s far easier to sleepwalk, to be in slumber and dreaming like a little titty baby, dazzled by fallacious projections that tickle the emotions and senses, than to be awake, alert, and attentive to the quiet machinations of the soul.
But now arrives a point of culmination: a time when enough people — although certainly not all — are rising as if from some absurd fever dream, groggy and stumbling in the waking moments of clarity.
What becomes evident in lucidity is that we have spun a nightmare of our own design, a childish and perverted distortion of our shared imagination to remain entrenched in a threadbare and monstrous delusion, thoroughly inadequate for the wisdom and maturity that will soon be required of each of us.
Not everyone will abandon the paths of illusion: There will always be the hollow walking characters who insist on the enchantment of their imagined course, loudly proclaiming their righteousness at every turn. I will no longer coddle or indulge them.
Indeed, the time for entertaining the infants is over, and I will spend the remainder of my life shattering their illusions at each appointed moment.
The babies will rage and scream, but their bellowing will not penetrate me. In the absence of direction, I will retreat to my place of seclusion and remain there, at peace.
Never tell anyone of your good deeds — They will loathe and despise you for it, Lest their own conscience be pricked.
Let your soul’s light shine, But not for your fellow humans, Who are too absorbed and enamored With the comfort of their own darkness.
Most of them are hollow avatars, anyway — One-dimensional specters void of creative power, Having exchanged the robustness of their identities For the passive ease of collective psychosis.
Nod along when they spout their nonsense And let them believe their choices are their own, Then quietly undermine them at every opportunity — They’ll be too blind to notice it.
They always accept the path of least resistance: That which is fated and familiar, Leading to the old pain and destruction With which they habitually identify.
Lacking courage and conviction, They will find your choices puzzling — That is, if they think about them all.
But if your presence is silent and stealthy, They’ll never detect the true extent of your power And you will be free to roam and create without restriction.
I remember the time we were alone in some remote canyon, and I watched, mesmerized, as he scaled the wall in front of me. The veins in his arms and legs were bulging, and every muscle in his sinewy body seized as he skillfully placed his hands and feet in all the right crevices, his naked flesh glowing with sweat.
I was awestruck by the grace and swiftness of his movements, his near-superhuman strength and endurance. Tears began pouring down my cheeks as I realized he was the most strikingly beautiful human being I had ever seen — still is.
No one on the street would give him a second glance: his initial presence is quiet and unobtrusive, and while reasonably handsome, his face is not unlike that of a million other men.
I still remember the first time I saw him walking in the door, though — I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I’d never experienced a moment so rapturous, and nothing has matched it since. My heart leapt inside me as if I had rediscovered a long-lost companion, although, to my knowledge, I’d never even seen him before.
Our connection wasn’t immediate at all: the first time we were alone together, we barely spoke a word. I was too busy trying to figure him out, trying to make sense of what my gut was screaming at me. Back then, I lacked the courage to trust my inner guidance.
In truth, he also irritated me a little — he was so distant and aloof, so maddeningly lost in his own thoughts until something triggered him to speak. Honestly, he was a lot like me. So this is how other people perceive me, I thought.
When the flame finally lit between us, though, the fire became all-consuming. He was the only person I’ve ever met whose mind seemed to operate on the same wavelength as mine. Our conversations were deep, absorbing, and intoxicating, often lasting for hours.
He made me feel rejuvenated and alive: his presence was warming, comfortable, and familiar. I quickly felt I knew everything about him, somehow — not his biographical details, necessarily, but every line written on his soul.
The act of discourse with him elevated me: having been stuck in an emotional and spiritual abyss for years, I witnessed new sparks of light and hope descending on me in the darkness.
I admired him for his honesty and directness, his gentleness and humility. I judged him to be a deeply honorable man, perhaps the only one I’ve ever met. For the first time in my life, I studied another person’s character and found my own lacking.
His integrity and sincerity were refreshing, and I recognized that the deception and hypocrisy I had long turned to for survival no longer served me. His essence inspired me to change my behavior, to honor my own quiet nature.
The way out of my malaise was still unclear, but my senses were quickened and my imagination aroused. Long fatigued and embittered by a succession of frustrations and defeats, I finally found the strength to make the first steps toward a higher path again — to dare believe such a path even existed.
His arrival signaled the start of a time when the fragile form of an existence that I had constructed for myself began to disintegrate. I can neatly divide my life between the period before I knew him and the many years since.
I knew his presence in my life would be brief: he was only stopping for a little while, on his way to the far-off desert.
When he eventually left, I dreamed that his old home had burned, and as I walked among the charred remains, I spotted a single chair, untouched by the flames. I sat in the chair, alone, and began to contemplate.
His memory still inhabits my mind at least once a day, and when it does, I say a prayer of grace for him.
I believe grace is transmitted to any person when it’s petitioned on their behalf by another. When I pray for him, however, I suspect the effect is especially potent, guided by a powerful but invisible line of connection that somehow links us — and always will.
Wherever he may be, wandering in that desert, a part of my soul is still with him. One day, perhaps, we’ll meet again.
Sometimes late at night Or very early in the morning In that twilight between sleep and waking I hear the faintest little signals — Transmissions from some place close, Yet I can never trace their origin. It doesn’t happen very often: There’s usually too much noise.
If I could shut up the world, I would — I’m tired of hearing our words. Years of yapping have yielded nothing But spectacle and heartache. It’s time to close our nasty mouths And seek shelter in quietness; To commune in solace, And listen to the wisdom of silence.
