(I found one of my old notebooks tonight while I was bumming around my cluttered desk. I believe the majority of these notes were written while I was pregnant. I’ve just finished writing a new journal entry which will stay on paper for the time being, but click the cut and enter the mind of a philosophical emotional masochist.)
Whatever happens, happens for a reason. There is no event of phenomenon that can be called “supernatural”. Our stubbornness as a race, our refusal to accept the limitations of our awareness, both propels and restrains us. We constantly search for and debate the answers to what we’ve always been told are life’s mysteries. WHy is it that these misplaced searches keep us so steadily occupied? Perhaps it is some curious aspect of the great force that keeps us reflexively barking up the wrong trees. It may be a genetic flaw, an inbred memory of our tree-dwelling days. Whatever their origins, the assumptions we all thrive on have yet to be challenged on a large enough scale to free us. We are lost, stranded, and separated by forces completely within our control.
Of course, to be shielded from the truth is considered by some to be a comfort. THis can only be the result of our foolish belief that we are correct by default. For over two thousand years we’ve been influenced by the teachings of a good and simple man. Unfortunately, the weight of his teaching has been overshadowed by the fanatical ancestors of his disciples. Since the dawn of organized religion the search for the eternal truth has been carelessly tossed aside for whatever the powerful majority decided to market as holy writ.
So the cycle has continued, common people teaching their children, who taught their children and so on until whatever truth there may have been is muddled beyond recognition.
All these deceptions would seem to the seeker of truth to be great wrongdoings, but even all this is within the parameters of the universal blueprint. We are composed of patterns, each of us, which are composed of smaller patterns which continue to infinity. Likewise, we are all parts of a larger pattern which is just another step in the ongoing cycle.
Sitting across from a living ghost. One who lives on technically, still breathing air, consuming fuel, ambulating around like the rest of us. He slouches into his chair, sagging red-rimmed eye-lids reminding me of foreskins as he waits. I wonder if he really knows why he’s here. Does he wait for me to provide answers? Cracked lips spill barely coherent ideals, blindly accepted in earlier times. He has his reasons for leaving; those he’s painfully aware of. But why stay? I feel as if I’m in danger almost…
He’s not alone in his haunting of the world. Much like hell, this place is teeming with the nearly dead, none of whom truly understand their affliction. This whole town is a den of psychic vampirism. The young seldom relax here, either moving on or eventually sinking as well, sucked dry. The old create their own way to survive, new realities where every delusion is the truth, every assumption is founded in rightousness. How is it that so few of these creatures who once so gloriously ripped awareness from the forbidden tree, are now so helpless in the face of deception?