Room To Run - A Short Beginning To A Long Story

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So here I stand, perched on this tightrope, with death on my left hand and life on my right. I spent my entire life thinking that I was living and never realized that I was actually asleep until death snuggled up beside me. Now—with the opposites of existence singing their joyous songs on either side of me—I can hear the truth laughing at its own joke.

This coma is a gift from God.

Every day that I walked the earth was an n abomination to humankind. The reason is really quite simple. While I was nothing of a monster in the usual sense of the word—I did not rape, murder, steal, adulterate, etc.—I was as arrogant as the ninety-five percent of the people in this world that walk around from day to day thinking that they now what the truth is.

God—and God alone—knows the truth. To think it any other way is a sin against existence itself.

Now my body lies here in this hospital bed, and my mind floats everywhere but there. I remember every detail of the journey that brought me here. The clarity of it all is like a dull ache in my soul. The circumstances hurt, and the participants are nearly enough to destroy—but these are all points to be made later.

For now—as it has been from the very onset of the coma—there is only the description of the darkness to be told. It is a darkness so all encompassing and black in its pitch that it devours all things—including itself—and makes them as the brightest light to have ever shown in the eyes of man. The sun would be blinded by this absolute brilliance. The world exists because of it and would disintegrate were it to be unveiled.

And from it issues a voice before which the likes of warriors and priests have knelt—sobbing!

It speaks to me as if it has known me all my life and—for the life of me—I cannot understand why I have not known it just as long. The words we exchange are like echoes in the womb; they are but the pre-suffering gurgles of a child first observed—and then answered—by the living, breathing, life-force that the understands to be its home. And then the realization that I have been deaf all these years shatters me and my soul begins to weep.

I have communed with my Holy Guardian Angel (the one that we have all—at one time or another—mistaken for the overseer of all the things except that one of which it truly is) and it has laid waste to my preconceptions of the world. I am baptized in a shower of light and love so that I might be worthy of the gift I am about to receive. With that it begins to make clear the parameters of my reception of this gift.

There are three and three only.

Firstly, there are no parameters in the earthly sense. My spirit will be unleashed upon this world—and any other that I may choose—wit the freedom of the wind and the power of a God. There will be nowhere that I cannot go, and nothing that I cannot affect.

Second, if I am so bold as to believe that I—while soaring, all powerful through the very atmosphere of life, and yet still being bound by human ideology and emotions—can accomplish anything worthwhile or, at the very least, can refrain from setting in motion any type of destructive earthly consequences, I will be permitted to record this excursion into the unknown, upon the palimpsest of my mind.

And the third condition is that—should I fall short in my assumption of benevolence—my own hand-written record of folly will be submitted as evidence against me in my trial between this life and the next. That will be the one and only time that I will ever be allowed to recall the words that I am writing at this moment.

It should now be apparent that my arrogance knows no bounds.

As far as my worldly existence is concerned, well, that is to remain a mystery even to a god such as myself. The only information I will be privy to is whatever snippets of wisdom I might glean from the sea of reality that—even now—ebbs and flows around the shell of myself that now lies below me; the heartfelt pleas of my family; the sterile response of the doctors; these will provide my only status report as to my human condition—or lack thereof.

With that said, I can feel the voice receding—slowly, but surely—to a place of quiet omnipotence high above me. Though it does not speak as it goes I know—as I should have all along—that it will wait there—and watch—and make itself available to me on a moment’s notice should I beg the answer to any question whatsoever.

I feel a comfort about me now that I have not known since childhood. Serenity is the reality in this place—rather than the dream.

All of this time-while I was conversing with my angel—the world around me was but a memory buried deep within the subconscious. Now—with the conversation at rest—the world that I have left behind begins to seep back into my newfound vision.

It is bizarre in ways that had I the vocabulary of Logos himself; an explanation would elude my tongue. The reason for this is that I am seeing with my soul rather that with my eyes. Everything is laid out before me as it exists inside that reality that w, as humans, can never hope to understand. It is the reality behind the fiction that we have created to shield us from what we cannot possibly fathom—the truth.

Here—with no earthly shackles to bind me fast to it—I can withstand it. In a sense, the ability to get away from it by retreating into infinity is the only thing keeping me somewhat coherent at this very moment. Were I to face this same landscape peering—as I have from birth—from the confines of my mortal head, I would surely have usurped all heretofore discovered levels of insanity in the blink of an eye. Facing it—with only the limited space that makes up the human mind—would have paralyzed me in one instant, and dashed my existence upon the walls of my skull the next. I see now the perils of not placing restrictions on truth and, in turn, why God only doles out to each person as much as he, or she, can handle.

Truth is like a great beast; it must be studied and understood; reckoned with and tamed; the smaller the room, the quicker it will devour you.

But here—in infinity—there is room to run. Room enough to hold the chair and the whip before your celestial body to keep the beast at bay; and room to run fleeing into the darkness for a quick session of prayer and redirection should the animal prove too overwhelming at any given moment.

The space around me is shimmering with the existence of life. Everything—from the family members who are visiting me—to the chairs they are sitting on—to the floor that supports them—to the air that surrounds them.

Everything is alive!

Heaven

A window opens before him

as he steals faithful eyes

from their view of Heaven--

roiling with eternal pain.

Suffer, here, the wicked.

For they are all that know 

life.  For them, death is but

a fleeting glimpse of Heaven--

in the instant before eternity.

The Assumption Of Control

This essay begins like a weak mans cop-out. Stick with it though...it has a point!

One of the foremost problems facing the spiritual evolution of humanity—as we know it—is the assumption of control.

By this I am referring to the control that we all believe to be within our grasp over anything other than the most mundane of life’s attributes. You have control over what you decide to wear when you wake every day; and where you go once you have donned those clothes that you have deemed fit. Control is exercised when you decide what, when, and how much to eat. All of the elemental factors of life—that compose what is recognized by the rest of the world as your outward personality—are within your control.. That, however, is the extent of it.

Each and every one of us was put upon this earth, at this time, and in the exact geological location in which we presently find ourselves, as a means to an end. We are here to fulfill something that—no matter our inability to either relate to, or fathom—simply must, and will, transpire despite all our indignantly egotistic attempts to make it otherwise.

No matter how small and insignificant you may, or may not, feel at any given moment on any given day; and no matter on what side of the proverbial fence of good and evil you may believe that you have chosen to call your home; existence is moving in the direction that it has since the beginning of what we—as humans—call time, and there is nothing that either you, or I, or God can do to stop it.

And that is why the assumption of control is so damaging. It expands our field of perception beyond what is actually needed in order that we might fulfill our place in the scheme of things. When you believe that you can do anything that you put your mind to distraction becomes your drug of choice. But if you believe that all you need to do is written inside the annals of your mind and—through constant prayer and meditation—seek the answers inside yourself, the answer will surely make itself apparent and distraction will cease to exist.

I am not, by any means, trying to make a case for anyone to simply give up on their dreams and accept any unhappy situation that they may presently find themselves in… …Quite the opposite, in fact. What I am saying is that you should dream as much—and as often as you possibly can—with the intent of being the best that you can possibly be; allow all things that come your way to assume the form of options. Anything—event the most repugnant of ideas—should be given a forum within your mind if only for the purpose of being eliminated as a possibility. Never dismiss anything without at least giving it a second thought.

The universe has an order, and in that order there will be those of us who end up performing roles that we never—in our wildest imagination—could have seen ourselves playing. That is the beauty of life, and a good source of the pain in this world derives itself from humanities egotistical assumption that it is otherwise.

If you spend your days and nights lamenting a dream that you thought would come true, it is sure that that day will never dawn.

But if, instead, you take all things as they come, and make of them what you can, the day when your original dream sees its fruition may yet be at hand.

Existence abhors being bound! To wake up in the morning and say that this is what I want to be and there is nothing that can convince me otherwise is to limit yourself to the cage of your own ego. If you free yourself up by accepting the cards that are dealt, there two, and only two, way in which the game can end. Either you move from point to point—with good intentions, and good faith—until one day, when you are least expecting it, that dream—for which you have yearned for what seems an eternity—presents itself in all the splendors of the universe. Or—proceeding with that same intention and faith—you stumble upon what was meant to be yours to begin with and, in that moment, realize that your dream was simply the cosmic carrot that lead you to where you needed to be…truly happy!

Generation Next

Generation Next - An Abortion Story

Fair Warning! If you are a hard core pro-choice advocate you might want to avoid this one!

Beside Myself

Beside Myself

Ever faced down one of your DEMONS?


This is how it went for me!

 I open the door and walk sullenly into my room—head down eyes still wet from the storm of emotions. My day has been anything but good. 

     I search half-heartedly for the light switch on the wall. I know exactly where it should be but am not quite sure if I want to turn it on. Somehow, darkness seems as bliss right now. 

     I am in luck; a flip of the switch brings the sweet sound and brilliantly bright flash of a bursting filament. The floating orb of annihilated light lingers for a moment, then dies, leaving only the violent vacuum of darkness to consume my sight. 

     Staring into nothingness has always been a great thrill for me. The notion that God was in it, or rather, was it, has comforted me since the very first time I comprehended the fact. 

     That realization came an eternity ago, and my days have grown darker ever since. 

     My drunken stagger brings my shin in painful contact with the glass table at the end of the hall. The pain awakens a sudden awareness of the room—and the shadow lurking in the corner. 

     “Shadow” seems to be the only word that makes sense to me right now; and yet that word seems to be a mere fraction of the complex equation that is unfolding before me. I blink my eyes hoping to relive myself of this vision, but to no avail. As my beer-addled sight adjusts to the darkness, so to does the thing before me seem to adjust to being seen? It is feeding off my curiosity; changing itself a little more every time I start to get a fix on it.

     The shadow is “evolving” with my foolish expectations. It begins to collapse upon itself, never changing size but folding, repeatedly, from the inside out. Each fold brings a new color, a new texture; from the brilliant azure waves of a sea I once dreamed myself drowning in, to the hellish crimson inferno I once believed would be my final resting place. It is as if my entire life has been reduced to the coalescing madness of this little orb of light. 

     Suddenly there is a sound such as none I have ever heard before. It is not even so much a sound as it is the ‘feeling’ of a sound. I try to understand ho the thing is making it but I cannot fix my thoughts well enough to comprehend—the sound is absorbing all my thoughts, all my feelings, everything I have ever known—if I could formulate a though, I would probably think that I was in heaven. 

     Suddenly, with the evaporation of thought, everything is gone: the table, the hallway, the light switch, the apartment, the little ball of chaos that had started this all… EVERYTHING! 

     A new type of thought begins. It is the thought that is no though; no me, no you, no I, just us. Time, space, and entity itself are but undreamt nightmares from a bygone era. I am in neither heaven nor hell, I just am. Everything is… 

     What the fuck?

     Where am I?

     Who am I?

     What is that thing in the corner? 

     Slowly I remember. I have begun to seep back into me. But what happened? Did I pass out? I vaguely remember a dream of something wonderful, but… 

     …that thing. It is different somehow—more menacing. The colors and shapes have disappeared and left what appears to be some sort of demon. It is watching me as a sentry would his castle; with tentative eyes and a grin of anticipation. Our eyes meet and it is as if we were born of the same womb. I feel as if I know this curios little creature, as if I had been his friend fro and eternity, or longer. 

     However, the anticipation is growing in his eyes. I can feel it piercing me like an arrow. He is daring me to approach his castle and telling me that he will destroy me whether I do or not.

     The choice is no longer mine. The battle must be fought. 

     For a moment, the alcohol tells me that I can win. That moment passes quickly, however, and it is upon me. 

     I feel its lithe little body scrambling up my legs. Tiny claws, like a cat, sink into the flesh of my thigh. Its speed is amazing; its ferocity even more so. There is a sudden rush of confusion as it sinks its razors into the soft flesh of my throat and uses its speed and momentum to vault over my shoulder and land on the nape of my neck. This must be its intended destination for there is a moment of anxious stillness—what feels like a slight caress on the back of my neck—a low, guttural moan—and then… 

     …I feel a piercing pain at the base of my skull—small at first, and then mind numbing. The pain grows as the hole widens and the shadow begins to crawl in. Its claws are reaching for something to grab onto; searching for the handhold that will gain it access to the shell I call ME. They find my spine and the journey begins. 

     Screaming now, I flail around the room. If only I had not gotten so drunk, perhaps I would be able to fight this thing off. Or maybe I would have been quick enough to keep it from getting on top of me in the first place. What the fuck is this thing anyway? No time for retrospective now—my spine is… 

     …broken by the wrenching of his claws; I drop lifelessly to the cold linoleum below. My jaw shatters on the floor and I see a red river beginning to flow towards the upturned palm of my right hand. The world collapses on itself and leave me all alone… 

     Now, as I open my eyes, a feeling of peace rushes through me once again. Below is the foul sight of my body being devoured while up here is nothing but…nothing; no pain; no anger; no drunken befuddlement and apathetic self-pity. Here is just the person I cal ‘I’ watching me be torn apart below. 

     The night grows old and disappears—as do the days and weeks. All the while, I delight in the violent drama below. I know I cannot feel what is happening but, at the same time, I seem to have some sort of knowledge of what is going on.

     The creature works its way, inch by inch, down the broken pole of my spine. I can see it inside my skin—it nibbles on my rotting flesh as it goes. This, however, is not its main goal as the gleam in its eye is ever looking downward—yearning for the feast that fills its stomach with the power to move on… 

     The scene is almost comical—that foul little beast satisfying itself on my putrid remains—and yet I am enjoying it on an n altogether different level. Up here, in the sober serenity of nothingness, the idea of watching the immolation of the vehicle that took me down so many wrong roads in my life is like the sunset at the end of an old western; the blood an endless death that littered the whole of the story are rendered all but forgotten in the warm rays of that forgiving star. All the torment, all the anguish; they are nothing more than the salty residue of my tears, dried buy the sun. 

     That vehicle drove me into the pits of hell. Well, that is a lie. It was more as if I drove myself there while I looked for a place to refuel. This absence of time and body is starting to fuck with me; all that I can do is think.

     Could I possibly be trying to blame the train wreck that was my life on the limp, half-eaten pile of flesh lying below me? I mean, of course the body has needs, but they are nothing but basics. The mind adds to the list of necessities. The mind that controls the degrees of what we call quality of living. Without the mind, we would be licking our balls before breakfast in the morning and rolling in shit the rest of the day. Then again, with the mess I have made of my life, the difference is only a matter of opinion. 

     I spent every waking minute of my life finding blame with everyone and everything but myself and, now, as I float through the ether of eternity, I try to place the blame on the home that I have been living in for this entire life. It is the very object that allows my mind to perceive its own existence and everything around it. The good and the bad are all the same; nothing more than a collection of experiences as known by one little shining light in the abyss of eternity. 

     …and suddenly it has reached the main course. With an orgasmic howl, it thrusts its way around my tailbone and latches its gnarly teeth onto my lower intestine. The art of nibbling is as lost to it now as that of casual drinking was to me—now there is nothing but the binge. 
It begins to move in the exact opposite direction of the course that has taken it months, possibly years to traverse. 

     Three or four bites—the lower intestine is gone. 

     Five or six—now the upper. 

     It is eating me from the bottom up and suddenly, along with the sense of freedom that I had in the beginning, the joy of the carnage is lost to me. 

     Suddenly the sound begins again from behind me—or is it around me—it sounds, at first, like a sweet lullaby. It grows continuously closer and eminently louder, until it is as thunder in my ear and lightning in my soul. It speaks no language I have ever heard before and yet its words become images before my eyes. They are the tale of my life woven of the sorrowful moan of the universe. Everything I have ever known is singing out before me in a chorus that would bring Christ himself to his knees. It is the song of salvation that rings true in the very inexplicability of this sound. It is a cry of hope from all those who have gone before. It is the mantra of the universe urging me back to finish what I had begun all those millions of year’s ago. It is simply the rhythm of life. 

     Its beat is chaos, and its tempo madness. Its affect is a torrent of rage like none I have ever felt before; rage perpetually molested into motion by crashing waves of love. 

     This is not the love of a boy for a girl, nor is it the love of a parent for a child; this is the love of eternity sweeping over the manifestation of time. It is the be all and the end all of everything I have ever known but could never, in a million time a million years, ever learn any multitude of words that would ever come close to wrapping themselves around the object so as to form a coherent picture of what I am experiencing right now. 

     It is that moment, which every person will experience in their lifetime, where, for apparently no logical reason at all, everything seems to come to a halt around you and tears run freely from your eyes. It is the only heaven you will ever truly know. 

     Rushing now, with the pace of fire and the intention of earth, onwards towards the body I shunned and the demon that is raping it. My thoughts are a dagger that I wield with pure intent; to carve this unwanted filth from my very being and set it to the task once occupied by myself—that of slave. 

     There is a rush of adrenaline as I plunge back into my half-devoured carcass. My mind engulfs the mass now gnawing on the bottom of my heart. Its attention diverted, the thing fights back. Words and images are the weapons of choice; all flung at me with the intention of distraction. They are demons in their own right, this barrage of obscenities, culled from the, seemingly, bottomless pit of my minds own illusion. 

     Everything is somehow different now, however, as I no longer see things the way I used to. Fear no longer has any meaning to me and death is something I’ve already overcome. The rules have changed and these temptations to doubt myself are so many empty threats hanging limply in the air outside. In here, in this circle of fire born of my own burnt understanding, there is nothing that can lead me away from myself. There is only me, and I am no one if I am not we…and therein lay the goal. 

      It is not the complete transformation, but it is the start of something so wondrous as to defy explanation. Even now, as the dominatrix howls with every lost ounce of control, the world is changing before my very mind; that is what I see with now. Your arguments hold no water, for they were mine a million years ago. You are no less than an extension of ideas I had when I was a child. There is no hurt, no fear, no doubt—it is all the same to me know. I yearn only for the day when I can perfect myself and will happily pass the time with this apish little creature by my side—doing my bidding for the sake of light and the destruction of darkness. 
The goal in mind, I set forth…