writings

To love and be loved is to be destroyed by it. I’m realizing that now.

It’s an impossible ask, for two to be one. Because each one is always becoming. So two isn’t even real. Neither is one.

But it is. And there’s that love so deep and so profound that it shakes us to our cores. Because it awakens and moves the parts we shunned and forgot long ago.

We are already whole. And not at the same time. And someone else who’s just as messy comes along. And then suddenly whole doesn’t even matter. Because things are perfect. Truly perfect as it is.

And so this perfection shines a light on our deepest depths. Our deepest wounds and our deepest selves. But that’s a scary thing. Terrifying, in fact.

But you have to. And you will. Because that is her. Reality. Everything.

And so you bleed the weary tears and let the heart fall from the highs to the lows. Because the highs are so high there never was a low to begin with.

And so it’s this messy, luminous collision of two souls daring to see each other fully.

Yes, it’s devastating. Love strips us bare and forces us to meet the exiled parts of us in the mirror that is the other. But that terror is also grace. For those highs above high is love transcending fear.

They aren’t separate from the lows. They are the same. The fights and laughs is the wounds and awakening.

So you bleed. You tremble. You let the heart break open again and again. Not because love is a destruction, but because it is the only thing able to hold all that is ourselves.

And so we must break all that isn’t for all that is.

And in this love, there is the truth that love doesn’t make us whole. It makes us real.

The choice is yours. It always has been.

But if you say yes—Oh, if you say yes.

It is in the vast, indifferent universe that we come to know our nothingness. That we are truly nothing.

And yet, the greatest wonder is how that is everything.

To live and to die, and to be weak and frail is what makes us us. For how else could we hold something so precious in our hands?

And so in this meaninglessness is love. The world too marches on, and he grows weary of the burdens of his journeys. For the world feels the weight of itself because it is.

And in this weary and toil we meet the divine. The beauty and grace of reality and her touch.

We are but the same. We are so weak and so controlled by pain that we are love and free to be.

And in this everlasting dance, and all the ones that flicker in and out, is the everything of nothing.

So do not be afraid to fear and to laugh. Our capacity to feel is our greatest weakness and strength. After all, it is what makes us us.

And do not be afraid to live. For things fall apart and come together time and time again. What is and what could be are all a part of the story of stories. And you will always be you.

For better and for worse.

Love your fate. Expose the fictions you call reality. Be burned by the fires of destruction, and rise from the ashes. Rise. Reborn, as light.

Rebel against what you think things to be, because they’re not! Desperately seek the truth of all truths, and see where it takes you.

Descend into the treacherous depths and follow the wanderers. For you will become lost to find yourself again. And again. And again. And again!

Love your fate. Dressed in midnight, grinning at the stars. Howl from the mountaintops and whisper into the winds.

You are your path. Accept it. Accept it again. And again. And again.

Because you are you. So be what you are meant to be, and love who you are.

Revelation is power. Be the might of your will and surrender the smoke. For the light will shine upon us, again and again.

So burn this letter. Distill the ink to lightning. And command your soul with ritual under the open sky.

Love your fate. Again and again and again.

You are eternal recurrence. A forever flame. A spell. A rite of way. So go through the fire and storm.

Because this is not invention. This is return.

To all that was and ever will be.

Now go. Again and again.

Ah, my ungrateful heart.

When I was younger, I’d hate when the old would wait. When they would want to listen to this tune.

I didn’t get it. What was so special about it? Yeah it sounded nice. What else is there to say?

Just wait, my dear. You have but many years. And it is my gift of wisdom to help you wait your tears.

Now, that same tune is but the moon. It carries such shimmer, for my soul can glimmer. And in the woes of my heart, I found what was the start.

It took some time to see. Why the old grow tender. Why the young must run. So we can be it all.

For the world grows weary of its treasures. And we do too.

For its treasures contain many pains and wonders. And I know not too.

And so my heart takes the toll. Sometimes, I have to keep it shut. Life moves on, so this the rut.

And I turn old to find moments of youth again. And that is why I wait, my child. For death is always certain, it is life that is the wild.

In truth, it’s better that way. Because that is mystery. Why we live. What else is there to say?

Ah, my ungrateful heart. So run, my dear. I was once a child. And I still am.

For I am. I always will be. This sacred being I call me.

Deep within your heart there is pure light. A soul, I suppose you could call it.

That is always there. And that is always a reminder that you are worthy of love. You belong here with everyone else, and more.

Many days the world will rain. Everything will seem in vain.

But know too that your pain will fade. Yes, it will break you. And yes, it will hurt.

There’s no two ways about it. That is what is. The refusal to look in the mirror is what causes our deepest sorrows. Because when we do not look, there is no tomorrow.

So I pray that you make it through the rain. That the thunderous clouds and wrathful lightning show vengeance and mercy.

Do not suppress your grief. Say the unsayable and let it wash over you.

For it is not just catharsis. It is initiation.

Something false dies forever. Grace is no longer taken for granted. Truth is finally given voice.

So this fire is the beginning of your sovereignty. If you choose to do so.

It’s the pain of finally choosing truth over illusion, even if it leaves ashes behind.

Do not be your small self. Spill into the world the rivers of your being. For they are not streams, only damned.

You are always real, beautiful, and whole. And you are not.

So do not be afraid. Do not fear. Illuminate the darkly night with the light that is your soul.

It seems that much of life and the journey we take is based on how much we can break through fear. Our ways of suffering that have trapped us into who we believe ourselves to be. Our ways of believing that have lied us into thinking this is all there is.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. That’s just what being human is. You as the bridge between knowing and not knowing.

So it makes sense that fear is the march it needs to be. For it is a broken bridge. One that you cannot see, because that is me.

But it isn’t broken. Because that is me. That is who I am. And so that is all I am.

The freedom here lies in recognizing the bridge for what it is. A way to travel worlds.

Of course that’s scary. How could it not be? But now there’s wonder. And that is the totality of uncertainty.

Now the question begs, why can’t we wonder? Why is it that every time I feel something emerge within, I have to trap it in?

Because that is life. This is the world we inhabit. Yes, it is beautiful. And yes, it is devastating.

So the story of your life as this up and down is me bridging the ups and downs. And in that, I see that I am each up and down. And more.

The infinite seer lives his life, for that is all there is. For once the world is glimpsed beyond what it’s been, that’s when I realize what this is.

So ask yourself what do you want to see? And in that you’ll find the answer to me.

—

I’ve lost my mind more times than I’d like to admit. And I don’t mean some emotional whiplash. Although I’ve had that too. I mean moments so chaotic you’re genuinely scared by reality.

You wake up one day and realize you have no idea what’s been happening the past few years. That it’s been days and days of more days. You have no idea how much time went by, but that it did. And a lot of it too.

And it is in this getting intimate with the march of time that you forget the simple cadence of it. You lose your grip on the rhythm of life.

And so the forever sun I see isn’t the one it’s supposed to be. Because this me had forgotten glee.

And so for a while, I was my liar. For the chaos had become too dire.

You wake up another and question what you see. But born out of fear, it’s the opposite of free.

And so nothing makes sense.

Red isn’t red and down isn’t down. Left feels like right and my mind’s all wound up tight. These eyes are torn with fright.

And so I wake up the next, only to realize no rest. For my world is this hell, I fell in my chest.

I was to wake up from the dream, but found my nightmare was nothing like it seemed.

And so I ask, where is my mind? In these lands, I surely can’t find.

I wake up and don’t know me from mine. What is the line?

Reality’s lied, because I am not fine. But who am I to whine?

And so I live the scream. For this time, I am trapped in the abyss of my dreams.

And so today is another day of watching my own decay. What a wonderful way to play.

World, please tell me, what have you got to say?

Sometimes on your journey, you meet what you believe to be an angel. Sometimes they are. Sometimes they are not.

For those that fall to hell only to rise again can see the truth of these beings. For angels and demons are but the same.

So as you laugh and cry and love and connect, see what the world tells you. Sometimes, it’ll feed you a lie so great that it is the dream of all dreams. The one you’ve been secretly seeking all along.

But that is the nightmare. Because when you wish, you surrender.

Surrender for what’s right and what you feel to be true. Really feel deep in your heart what is and isn’t. Because that is your way.

And as you go down your path, accept all that was the past. For there are always better things to come. That is the way.

To live is to paint the canvas of your being; to write the lyric of your soul; to sing the tears of the heart

You are the space between what was and what’s to be - a tempest of opportunity, filled with infinite wonder and peril.

Be the artist of your mind! Scribble all over and draw on the textures of sound and the shapes of emotion and the waves of sentience, and see what masterpiece emerges.

That masterpiece that is you. A manifesto of pure creation and destruction, over and over and over again. Until your last dying breath, as you wander off into the wild…

Remember as you explore, you are both lost and found. Free and bound. Argue with the edges of your world and see how reality negotiates.

Experience is but a beast, you are the monster and the tamed. The warden of your dreams, the conductor of your visions. Of what is. Of what will. And of what was told.

Do not fear the power of your being.

Do not temper the fire of your soul:

A mystery that knows no end.

You are a story of revelation;

A true declaration of becoming.

Suffering is the fear of uncertainty, and everything we do to keep that at bay.

It makes no sense, because the unknown is certain. Everything else isn’t. And so we hold on so tight to what we know and what we think is right and what we think is me.

But I don’t know how to not be scared. I don’t know how to not be angry at the world about my pain. And I see everyone else too, doing the same thing.

Many times I’ve asked, why God? Why this? What is this? How am I supposed to be okay with all of this?

There is no answer that’s good enough. There is no answer that makes the suffering worth it.

And yet, we dance. And sing. And cry and love.

The pursuit of understanding is what we do. And it’s gotten us quite far. But what now? When the questions never end?

I suppose all we can do is find embrace in the world and each other; for the pursuit of happiness is not to understand, but to be.

And that pursuit is whatever it takes to get there. And what a journey that can be.

The unfortunate truth is most can’t handle chaos. The not knowing is all becoming. Yet that is all there is. And so the failures of our world is a great sadness. For we lie to ourselves when there was no truth to begin with.

We ask and seek and grasp and yearn. We fight and pray and love and learn. But the questions never end. Why?

And so we do what we can. But can isn’t is. And that is why we suffer.

We try and will our hearts but question if it’s true. What do I feel? How do I move?

I don’t know. This is me. I can’t go on. And so I must stay.

But what are you so desperately holding onto? Because when you stop and look, who is me? What do I see?

You are and you aren’t. You are good and bad. You are being and becoming. You are one and two.

For the world always reflects back who you are, because reality is this mirror from afar.

Love and connection is what brings to life the groundless ground. Because if nothing matters and everything’s perfect why exist in our certain ways?

Connection is that tethering. That line drawn in the canvas of reality. Me and you. That we’re in this together. That we see things the same although we’re different and that the times we share will be magical, for all that it is.

That tethering is what makes things real. It’s what makes things dance. For that now there is a ground, there’s somewhere to play.

And so all the uncertain things we questioned about ourselves show as these characters of this opera, and all the ups and downs become these beautiful sagas of the night.

And in doing so, we come to realize that all the mysteries we had about ourselves were that same nothing and everything.

Because why did we question our worth? And our humanity? And that I was undeserving of love and never to be seen, for all that I am?

And in wrestling with these nothings, we come to find that these struggles were the everything of our worlds. The stories we tell and the colors we use.

So do not be alone. For your being is always becoming in this world.

And you are never alone. For the times you share without your face is still speaking with reality.

So in this fire between what is and what will is the myth of aliveness. For to dance is to bring to life what is but a simple tune.

And what a myth it is. It is truly magic. Because when the melody arises, the world reveals her prizes.

That we can witness our creations in this wild field of being. Love.

Love indeed.

The secret of stillness is that it is a mirror for the divine. For when the mind quiets, reality is ecstatic. She is finally seen.

The demon whirls in euphoric surrender, for the forms start to blossom.

And within the eye of eyes is the vast sea. This sea of is.

It is ecstatic because the chaos is controlled. And it is not. So this dance between what is and what will never ends.

And so what was torment becomes euphoria. Because this is what that is, where one becomes two.

And as one becomes two then three then a million, the wrathful faces show. For that is what they are.

And as you pain and laugh and cry and prance, realize that this too is that dance. That dance between you and everything.

And as you move, you may come to find that there never was a dance. But rather demons and angels whirling forever. For that is the divine and its mirror.

It is all in front of you. It has always been.

And it is you. You are that. You are what I am.

And so I am. This divine play, as I be my way.

The cruelest lesson I’ve had to learn was not that there is pain in this world. But that I had to let go of what I thought love to be.

And that is a torturous journey. One that will forever scorch any trace of me.

I suppose it was to be that way. For falsities to come and take you away. Because that’s what I had wished for all along.

I have no ill will. I understand deeply our tragic flaws. But still, it kills. Because it’s pain with every cause.

That I had to lose what I knew to be love for love to finally reveal herself to me.

That it didn’t matter how I had to be. I was always accepted for me.

My heart is open again. It always will be.

For even in the ruins of my soul, I am no ghoul.

I am alive. I will never die.

For this odyssey of life, I am.

And the love that was meant for me, soon we shall meet.

Until then, I will see you again. In the people I greet and the mirrors I seek.

For this reflection of my being, I was.

And with you, my love, I will. Always.

What is life but being thrown into the world, to figuring out why you’re here and how to be, to then making it our home?

It’s a harrowing and profound journey that takes you to the depths of your soul, and beyond.

Because you don’t know. Then you do. Then you don’t. And things just keep happening! When will it end?

And in this odyssey of a million miles do we get to find ourselves amidst it all. A singular raft floating in what is the endless sea of being.

It’s something we get to find, because it is. Is is a treasure. The map to end all maps.

It’s something we seek, because we know what it is. But we don’t. And so we have to face what’s right and wrong to get to right and wrong.

And this journey of up and down takes us on so many ups and downs. And forward and backward and left and right too.

We are here. We have always been here.

Why? Why not?

And so we come to see that we were never thrown into the world and her pit of demons. But rather held by the all embracing touch of nature herself.

And so why ask for an end? Once you’re home, you’re home.

Now, you have everywhere to go.

So what will it be, this question of me?

Who knows! I can just be.

We are free.

What a bittersweet and beautiful feeling it is to relive the past in the now. To see the world again through those young eyes is quite something.

Many times I’ll go back to a certain day or moment or place and see it directly and wander that fleeting world. I’ll probe each memory to see again just how blue the water was that one day or how joy felt when I was a child.

It’s quite something because there’s just so much, all of it. I’ll start seeing the red and blue and green of my drawer and the tv that was on top. And then I’ll start seeing it through younger me’s eyes; and you start to sense the confusion and wonder and fear and pain all over again.

It’s quite something because as you feel, you don’t know what to feel. It’s like your being is in two worlds at once. And unfortunately, you can’t choose which one is now.

As the lines between the imaginal and liminal blur, you can’t help but feel that lostness. That in which you know who you are by way of your life and the worlds you’ve inhabited, but are unsure of which ones you've created. Many times you ask, why me? Or is it because of me?

The truth is there is no truth. And there is the truth. And there is your truth. And there is everyone else’s and the world’s.

I wonder which eyes will see the world again and tomorrow. The day after that as yesterday’s past.

What is and what was were but a dream. Everything I had thought life to be and everything it was what not what it seemed. Not what it seemed at all.

The sun shines and I remember me as a kid, running on some grass. Then the clouds arrive and I remember how it would rain. And when it would rain, it would pour.

But it wouldn’t. Or so I had thought. And that is the mystery of being that is becoming.

If this is a dream, this is also a nightmare. And so how we see what we see beyond what we think things to be is what colors our deeper sense of me.

To make the unconscious conscious is to free, after all.

And so once we’ve seen these illusions and have woken up from the dream of all dreams, we realize that nothing was a nightmare. Nor a dream.

And exactly everything it seemed.

Nothing was ever hidden. Just waiting to be seen as it is seems.

And so when we see what is, and what was, do we get to be all that what will can be.

When you come back after you’ve been gone a while, your memories haunt you. Because they weren’t there before.

You ask, how is this me? And how could this not be? Yet among the confusion, there is relief. That sense of coming after going.

It’s scary because the fog is so slow. And so dense and sticking to the water too.

And so when you catch that glimpse and that slight separating of the mist to see what you always see, it is devastating.

Because where did my life go? And who am I? No seriously, who am I?

The boat’s stuck when there’s too much fog. You can’t go because you’re scared of what you might hit or how you might fall. And after you’ve hurt a few times, you’d think you’d get over it. Absolutely not.

Because you’re scared of you. You’re scared of all that you are. So it doesn’t matter if you trip and bleed, because there is no good deed. Not because good and bad, but because there is none after all.

There is no deed. And that’s to be freed. Glee.

Almost a perfect illusion. Something’s always amiss.

So what do I do? I don’t want to. I can’t. What do I have to lose?

You always have. You fool. No wonder the fog’s making you drool.

You get better. You see more and more. Remember your lore.

And you face the heartbreak that is the loss of your life. The fog slowly rises.

Now the past, no more surprises. And so I live, no more guises.

The school of revelation is no benign creation. Or so it is. I don’t know. I don’t care. The fog is my imagination. Yet tortured obligation.

So this fog of war, this fog of self. Some days I wish I was a fish, mounted on that shelf.

Love is when you create a world within the world together. Shared experiences, language, thoughts, and perceptions that are uniquely yours and private to the world. Connection isn’t just what tethers us; it is the ground.

They say love is most fundamental and that it has its own plans. From which there are no answers and clues, it enacts the way. There is no path without the ground, after all.

Maybe they say to hold on to those lasting fleeting moments because that is really all you have. But somehow, once it’s graced you, it’s never gone - just as you are now never lost.

From what I can see and tell in my limited experience, the world does really seem to be held in its fragility by love and those who are unafraid of its consequences. Or, in other words, all of us and our terrifying-beautiful stories.

It’s what turns the extraordinary ordinary back into moments of something sacred. And loved.

So what is love? It’s when the whole universe seems to exist in that shared glance. Truly ineffable.

“From what I can see and tell in my limited experience, the world does really seem to be held in its fragility by love and those who are unafraid of its consequences. Or, in other words, all of us and our terrifying-beautiful stories.”

The only thing you really need to know about all this is that you have suffered and you’re continuing to propagate it, whether it be afflicting pain on yourself or others or the world. The sad thing is we’re both aware and unaware of all of this; resilience would say we’ve continued in spite of all this.

I don’t understand why it’s so hard to accept this. Maybe it’s because deep down I will never be okay with suffering. And maybe it’s like that for other people too.

Love and suffering, suffering and love. Maybe they’re two and the same. I don’t know. And maybe it’s okay for some things to remain a mystery.

Maybe we suffer because we are love but don’t feel it. Don’t know it in the ways we’re meant to, but rather in its messy forms and what we want it to be. Maybe the biggest lesson of all is that regardless of what you think and feel and see and regardless of what you’ve been through, you will always be love and loved.

My heart aches at past me and everyone else who was disillusioned by the absence of love. I am so sorry. I know this is just me whispering into the ether, but I hope you know that I love you and so does the world and so do you, deep down.

Sometimes, the hardest part isn’t the loss of the other person or place, but the loss of the story you told yourself about who you would become.

You let yourself dream because it was real. It didn’t just feel real. It actually was.

So once reality has disappeared and that wish of what will fades, you’re left with pain. Why? What did I do wrong? I really thought this time was different.

The truth is, I don’t know why this happened. I really wish it didn’t. A part of me so desperately wants to believe it was all a lie.

But sometimes these dreams are nightmares. I don’t know if they have to be, but they are. And it hurts.

So we mourn this loss of story and this loss of self, because that life just isn’t there. There is no longer a path.

And so I wrestle with my suffering and my loss of being. And I hope that through this chaos I’ll know what I’m seeing.

I didn’t want to wander again. I thought that was home. But here I am again, all alone.

I’ve lost faith many times. But I know that it is in being lost that I will be found.

So the world keeps marching on. And I will too.

For faith is to dare to dream time and time again. A story untold.

Such is life, I suppose. I will find the rhythm of my being again.

For I am what is told.