Sunday, April 28, 2013


                My depression is the ebb and wane of waves of pain and pleasure, the being with feeling on of a heart and mind spilling ideas like endless ejaculatory seed, but my quell withdraws, I come to mistrust the limits of the day, to wonder when my inner light will open again. Ama, I call to you in all this – you are the language of my live. Oh lover and fellow world wanderer – I hate in my heart whoever else would be your other. You are Ama to me. I need your literature, your words of love, they are pure Lissidy, they feed my inner soul. Amazhiar, why do you mock at my loves. Even in my depression, I keep to Beethoven’s motto, nulla dies sine linea, but ever write, am forever ejaculating my writing of solitary bliss into the night.

                I wake up grey, my mouth chalk dry. My life-thread strings tawny, but even in this, in the core of it is a pleasure of being which never cracks; and our optimism kicks our path before us, unrolling like a carpet.

                So I yawn. Why do good things never want to stay? Why do those I love hide away? Cloudy eyed with flame dying, a touch of morbid realism worrying my brow, I am at least invigorated by the violence of opposition, and I remember to let cultural diversity always be warfare. With our words we kick forward our paths. I keep it up, I seek Ama in a circle of faces, my friends are her for me. Let not passion settle into duty, duty into a burden, burden into dread. Enmity by enmity is overcome; strife enlivens; eros is a wrestle as well as a loving; war is the father of all things, peace the mother; necessity is the mother of invention, genius the father, and my symbolic infidelity, fitting my perfidious preference for direct experience, sets you aside, sets you all aside at times, as I run into thrilling contact with a touch of the all.

                This mind, inhabited with habits, this habitat I never leave, becomes haunted utterly with the ideals of my hope, the striving light of Allism I seek in all things; this keeps me solid, though my temperament ups and downs, leaving me saying with a young Emerson, “sometimes my mind is full of thoughts and ideas, but often empty and grey; my youthful hopes to be somebody have been replaced with the realization that I am mediocre” – such he feels and so in my depression I feel it too; self-doubt is the only hell.

                Language is a living presence, she is the light of trope, Lux, the Holy Spirit that inspires all literature, and that peculiar literature called scripture; all beauty, and that peculiar beauty called spirituality. Poetry and prophecy will forever quell my my heart, and loneliness arises proud and laughing as solitude, which means being alone with you Ama.

                Lulls and depressive spells distill time and purify my eyes; sorrows and heart breaks are built in, structurally, to the growth and molting of an infinite soul, which as the ever increasing spiral is both time and eternity, both progress and cycle, is the each in all and all in each of an individual who is equal to the all divine yet situated utterly within her. Nothing can be forgiven because what is deepest to the soul is never wrong, always light, a new sun, a new light; indeed, is is not the self, but the mind, that strives for apotheosis, and becomes an angel who bends, or a god who insists on himself, depending how in life we decide to make ourselves. Depressions and pleasures cannot dismiss this joy of life; the central sun is pure joy, and the only pain in all of life is eclipsing our mind from that innermost bliss.

                Existence is happy, but graduations of greatness come as raw shocks of pain and trial. We endure because we can’t not. We know who we are at our heart, core, and centermost. Knowing that and knowing it utterly, not settled network of facts and mortal truths can daunt us. Choice endures. In all we make we make our heaven. Even the moments of throated dust are ascendant and serve to compel us onwards and upwards. There is no hope for he who haves. Hope or have: I choose what I am. In this, a thrill of pleasure clothes my naked body, no matter how despondent I previously was. This is the irrefutable and final seed of my existence, and every journey of identity in a mind that grows and suffers is to remind me of what I ultimately am. My depressions never ultimately can unsettle me.




\ ~@M@~ /


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