Consciousness, hallucination, wrestling the inner Titan, lostness, insomnia, and the New Eden
excerpted from IN AND OF: memoirs of a mystic journey, by Jack Haas
At these times I beheld consciousness in the grip of the hallucination which invented it. I fought like a Titan wrestling with his own powerless shadow. I drank up an ocean, and pissed out a world. The planets swarmed to knock me down. The winds howled to defeat me. The moon cast thunder down upon me. The sun went dark. But I kept on going, moving on, or something, to somewhere. I was walking through the Self. I was going. Didn’t know where. No one came with me. Still I kept going. On and on I say. I kept going on, on and on. Lonely as the wind, strong as the tree which withstands it. I kept going and going, on.
It seemed as if from the outset I was set adrift and my whole life was a journey back home, a home which did not exist because ...I was supposed to be adrift. And it was this alienship to all being which was in fact my true birthright, my inheritance, my blessed freedom from all that dies. And the momentous movements out and away were the caustic baths of purification, the baptisms by fire, the parched and deserted lands the spirit is left to eternally roam.
I had to go on ...because I could only go on; because once you have gone a certain distance, even if it be digression (or perhaps especially if it be digression) you cannot return from such remoteness, you cannot find your way back, ever; you have scurried about in the labyrinth’s dark expanse an irreconcilable distance. Once you are away, you just keep going.
While everyone else had been carving out a niche for themselves in this life, I was filling mine in. While everyone else sought to be found, I inherently sought lostness; and by this I inexorably betrayed the continuity of the manifest, and fell in amongst the chaotic, foreign beyond. The sun set, the moon rose, and the night became my homeland.
I became a refugee from being- I came to exist on the periphery of everything ...that is.
It was a fine, horrid enterprise that branched and widened, flooding out into my dreams.
In the vestiges of that engulfing miasma, dizzy in the peaceless calm, I flailed against life in a merriment of fears, and shivered around the lost fire.
I sang though I was mute, jumped though I was lame, and loved though my heart was hard as Hades’.
Cold in the stupor of reason, life bled listlessly from my soul.
Hardened in the chaos, I listened without hearing, touched without feeling, and changed without becoming myself.
Softened in the realm between victory and defeat, the Great Play consumed the player, but all that remained was the spent, broken shells of yesterday’s home.
And yet exiled from the continuum, I performed intangible duties, healed secret ills, and reckoned with imperfect eyes.
Oh yes, here and there I grasped and held onto things, to thoughts, and to lies. Later or soon I was forced to let go.
When predicament ensconced the days, oblivion forsook them.
Resignation became my fountain and my thirst, while misery tangled about in the lyre.
Fear crept in through the fissures of my nothingness. Sadness purged it out. A hollow conduit of incompleteness was all that remained. Through this the Source oozed rapture and healing into my unclosable wounds.
It was never enough. The distance itself was damnation. I was alone, absolutely alone, and only the pit of my troubled guts had the honest strength left to grieve it. There you have it.
Still it was all a miracle, of that there is no dispute.
How I saw it is all that can be said, not what it was I saw.
Aglow and wandering, free of context and meaning, writhing unkempt in the dark, terminal madness of becoming, it was the decadent insomnia of consciousness that held me gripped and staring. I was an unclosable Eye, casting about hither and yon, hunting frantically for a mirror to find itself within. To look, to see, to comprehend.
New Eden, old crime.
by Jack Haas
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