Dancing through Hell Fire

Dancing through Hell Fire

I often feel we cheat ourselves because we’re afraid of our own glory. We’re afraid that deep down, we truly are magnificent creatures destined to keep on living, not achieving, but being the most glorious pieces of light that stretch across the endless expanses of space. Sometimes, I feel that the greatest purpose of breath is to dance, to dance through every single day like nothing matters. There lingers deep down oneself the immense urge to explode into oblivion, to become a simple nothingness that is more glorious than the atomic truth of material existence.

Every time somebody reads something, it seems like they are looking for something. In every act, it seems like each person is expecting some kind of great mystery to come rolling down onto the floor of their conscience, naked, bare, and innocent. It’s only a daunting thought to see that there might not be any mystery at all. If we remove purpose, meaning, tomorrow, and time from our lives, we simply aren’t able to imagine what might be there to look at in the sunshine. There might be nothing at all. Say I just give up thinking entirely, would anything be there at all?

So many people are searching and searching. I like laughing. I adore the human ability to burst out with energy from the innards laughing into space with a sense of insanity and absolute craziness. Because of the way so many people have told me life should be, the mold it should take, the kind of boundaries it should be limited by, the kind of stupid scientific theory it should be reasoned by, I find even writing this difficult. From deep down in the unconscious I feel an almost unstoppable forcing drawing only dishonesty from me. There is a kind of living organism stopping me from touching life. I don’t know, maybe the organism’s just another thought.

You know I’m afraid that if I stop writing, I might lose myself again. I might forget life, might just disappear into the endless void of non-being. But then, I’m this endless explosion tickling myself at this little corner of the galaxy dreaming of doom and hopeful of a blessed tomorrow that hasn’t come for over a billion years. Funny, eh?

Morbidity is this little flash of wisdom that sits smoking a cigarette made of childish doubt at the tips of my little goose bumps that come erecting through every little molecule of breeze that touches me. I sit here, asking the sky to come molest my existence and cloud me with more and more confusion. There is great evil in this world, and it isn’t our enemy. It is our experience. And we make it because we like it. We love great tragedy. Deep down, the human heart is crafted by soil, wind, and spirit to handle the most grievous torment, the most heart-ripping sorrow, and the most devious and disastrous self-deception. The human mind is made to feel evil at its greatest height. This is not our destiny, this is our creation. And we play it out so well that all our acting has transformed itself to become real personalities in this desert of verbal and mathematical calculation. Only gods can hoax themselves to perceive mortality as a real concrete thing. Only gods can take this existence ride into absolute mayhem and uncalculated misery beyond self-understanding. This confounded movement through the undefined cosmic soup is the absolute glorification of our divine existence. You know, it’s great, hell and all. In the deepest fire is where you will find the light. Rotting like a living corpse in the deepest, deepest most unimaginably painful place in your infinite self.

I stopped searching for reality when I discovered that losing touch with reality is reality itself. This whole thing, this life, it’s too fast. We try with paintings, music, poetry, we try, but those are just desperate attempts that come meagerly close. It’s too fast to capture in a sentence, it simply can’t be done. Ah, it’s great though. You know, we’re all drunk on this great cosmic thing. It’s a great and long intoxication, almost eternal. In the mind, sixty years seems too little. Run to Medicare, fitness, hit the gym, sport, diet, good food—bullshit. When you forget tomorrow, you’ll just be dancing out there breathing the very air that sustains you. There is no tomorrow, so many idiots are fighting a battle that does not even exist outside their mental space. The mental space is an elusive entity. Everything that exists in that space is a dream. And it’s funny when you realize that the entire universe as you knows it happens in that limited mental space.

Does anyone really set aside time to think of useless things? I wonder. The world is so preoccupied in making tomorrow better than today, they are interested only in productivity and mechanical manipulation of every dam thing. Even this thing they call love, it’s a mechanical process devised to end in confusion, torment, anguish, and total indifference. Duality defines the world every minute in such a way that each intention is bound to attract its diametrically opposite intention. If you chase happiness, you will run into sorrow. If you chase salvation, you will run into damnation. If you chase love, you will run into hatred. Success and failure. Life and death. How can there be so many people out there who never figure this out? It is so, obvious. So, concrete. Yet people live in a way which merits the belief and hope that one side of the coin can exist without the other. It’s absolute ignorance. It is hope that keeps you crawling in the shadows addicted to wishful thinking and endless dream.

You will not wake up if I ask you to. I will not wake up if you ask me to.

Whisky, wine, rum?

 

art: Vincent Van Gogh

Breathing in the Shadows

Breathing in the Shadows

Sometimes, we all get sad. We get distraught, entirely confused and craving for some light, a little inch of understanding that might salvage us the remnants of our half-wasted lives. The various flavors of guilt steal our attention to remind us of the miserable ways we treated people, the low energy moments when we fed off the joyous memories of some ancient glory we believed to behold but had no part to credit ourselves to. Sometimes, the whole of human existence feels like a ghostly movement of flawed vocabulary and broken spirit. And then, we turn to rum, on some days its whiskey and the few days of wine. And every day, there’s beer. The liquid diet serves to cure both a broken heart and the guilt that spurns from the memory of other hearts that were broken.

The universe has a tiny irking for brokenness. It kicks itself about it and yearns for more and more brokenness. Brokenness gives perfection a glorious crown. It is an element of art that decorates the highest level of creativity with aliveness. It hosts an immense power to alchemize existence into something higher than itself. Here we are, the pinnacle of the universe’s desire—humanity. A wretched race built on the broken ideals of morality, love, and hope. Here we are, a tormented people striving for greatness and blind to the doomed quality of our ignored mortality. We are the peak of the universe’s magic, and the foundation of that peak is the broken nature of our hidden spirits of whose existence we will always be doubtful of.

Every journey into the realm of understanding—to understand oneself, others, all of it—every journey, smells of vanity and stinks of cheap beer at the end. Sometimes it’s best to say things in a way that the only implications are the things being said and no greater meanings hidden or pointed at. The power of transcending grammatical perfection and lingual decency is the only power that helps anybody break out of the shackles of their own concocted verses of rhyme, meaning, clarity, and eventual boredom.

Each alphabet, each sound, is an explosion of the one thing there is—life. Is it here? What does it mean for something to exist or not exist? What does existing mean? Do I exist? Do you, who is reading this exist? Or are you just a swirling in the cloudy imagination of dreams that I spurned yesterday. So many men want their lives to end on the shoulders of a pretty woman and on the rims of a glass filled to the brim with rare whiskey stored in nurtured barrels for a million years. I have no dreams for tomorrow. I want today. And the more I look at it, the more I see that there is no today. Today was over, many years ago. All that remains is the inklings of the little child that dreamt each day of a future that never came and a future that never comes. I like Ms. Plath, glorious and alive in heart look up at that fig tree and wish for every bit of it that it can offer, but I see it all, grown rotten and created to hoax the only thing I ever believed to be alive—myself.

Our lives become staircases into the shadows not because of sorrow that we claim to be our own, but sorrow that we claim to have shared with the tender reflections of ourselves—other people. The many masks and personas that we dance with from dawn to dusk into the weary walks with our dreams at night, we are the dreams of endless nothingness. Have you ever felt like nothing amazes you anymore? Felt like the greenness of the trees and twinkles of the stars were nothing but boring kisses from the same old mother? In the end you see, all things are robbed of charm and light, robbed of dreaminess and steaminess, robbed of life. The only fear the living are left with is the fear of who gets robbed and who keeps robbing. Neither exist.

Somewhere between this dreamed beginning and feared end, there arose this “I am”. And “I am” is the hoax that breeds this endless oblivion.

With the end of things, all that remains is the infinite potential for a new beginning. Even such a thing as glorious and eternal as poetry meets mortality. The only real thing about being alive is death—the fact that one day, all this that we know and love and cherish, hate, despise, and scorn at will be gone. All gone! And then I, my own sweet precious I that I nurtured and kept moist with attention, light, and sweetness will come to what? Nothing. I see that now my friend, and smile.

I’ll ramble till the sun goes down on his knees and begs me for mercy. I will speak till the breath flowing in my toes leaves through my nails. I will not preach but I will scream. I have no reasons for my dances in the moonlight, no causational rendition of meaning to my madness. All you have is me, and the experience that is me. All we have is the stars, to mourn and complain of our mortality.

If you aren’t afraid of death you haven’t seen life yet. I’ll leave you now, with an empty heart and a shallow hope for an eternal tomorrow. Give it up sweet tearful friend, from birth to death is one large lemon, and we swim through burning ourselves, slowly disappearing into a forgotten nothing.

 

art – The Road Through Death – the jamesstark