The crazy voices in my head called me today. They asked me how things were going, and I told them, “Every-thing’s peachy, ’cause that’s how I am, and stuff.” Then, I asked them how things were with them, and they told me.
They told me a tale of the beginning, of middles and endings.
The told me of the many things that exist throughout the world; of the beauty of falling leaves, and the horror of burning in stone. They told me about how a fish could live its entire life completely oblivious to the tedium by which its journey progresses along a predetermined path of circumstance and eventful highlights.
And they told me about the fear of knowing the complete set of details of a human existence when all of the moves have been planned out and are known, and all the moves have been seen, and repeated again and again.
They told me more things about how the plants that encompass the glove are interconnected by a complex chain of esoteric mystical energies that sustain each and every living thing in an enormity of bigness that could move a mountain to shed a tear at the shear brilliance of all those interdependent pinprick jots of congruity at the microcosmic level.
And they told me of the darkness that splits a hair and is cast out into the net of wonder, joy; about the network of terror that infiltrates and disrupts and disturbs and desecrates each and every relationship that imbues all of existence with the very energy with which it is created from.
They told me all of their crazy observations about life and about death and about the thousand and one other levels of being that may or may not be of relevance to the conscious mind. They repeated their didactic decrees until I was blue in the face. And then they repeated them again.
I heard what they had to say. I really did. And then they repeated it again. And again. And again. They filled me with their words that meant nothing, but spoke volumes of meaning about everythingness. The words they ensconced an eternity of existence wrapped up within a cookie of absolute discernment. And then they repeated it again.
I don’t know what they want, what they wanted.
I do know, that they stopped their continuous repetition of what is, what was, what will be. And I do know a thing or two more now. For example, I know that the world is a really big place, and we are but a simple organism crawling upon its face. Granted, we move at a pace more in tune with the falling water from the mountaintop than we do the grace of the snail across the ground. But we are still a species that is not even close to achieving its potential. The snail moves at a snail’s pace, as it has achieved the completeness for which the snail has achieved. No faster, no slower than the pace by which it has achieved, the snail’s pace.
Humans, those of us still able to call themselves as such, what pace have we achieved? What, to what, have we become? Are we yet at the point to which we can point to our humanity and state that we have become the penultimate human that we can become? Or are we still on that path to attainment of such humanity?
Buried deep in our collective conscious unconsciousness, there lurks the beasts to which we cannot yet name. When we can name them, put paid service to the designs by which their existence owns up to our own place in the totality of everythingness, then perhaps we can say that we’ve arrived at the point to which our humanity is indeed the part to which we’ve arrived at. Perhaps not; yet still, we try.
And another thing that I know, is that the crazy voices in my head are not but a shadow of I, myself and only I; but instead, they are a reflection of the sum of all beings, both human and other, that permeate this realm of being. I don’t know how or why or when or even wherefort art they? But they come, they say and they know what’s what with what.
With infinite sadness and a stillness born of uncomfortable awareness and of blindness, we continue on our journey, faults and all, towards the completion of our existence, be it as a single cell amongst the machine, or the machine as a polyglot of all. With silence, with contemplation, with the desire to accomplish what we all know is attainable within ourselves, even at the smallest of combustible points, we can attain personal fulfillment without sacrificing, our humanity.
The last words that they spoke unto me, with quivering anticipation, I beheld their forms:
Vengeance fills the void.
Vengeance fills the mind.
Vengeance fills the ether between being and not quite so much.
When there is no more vengeance, then the journey begins in earnest.
And of that, of no more, do I know what they spake; for to delve even deeper into that maelstrom of being, would be to invite madness, and or worse.
Silence, it sits upon the open face of decision. You know it is right, when it is right, and you go forward with what it is. Speak now, this moment, and every one that follows that requires the word to be spoken, and make the silence count for what it counts for. Choose to be the moment; don’t merely allow the moment dive into you and consume you, for you will be lost. Be, what you are, be what you will be, be Brightness. And be good with that.
Chaos, is the silence that has yet to speak. It is the right hand of getting things done, and the left hand of the things that have already done. It is the voice by which we attain our heights, and the slap in the face of flatulence by which we fail to even try. Speak it out, spell it with vigor, and choose to be what you can be.
And know, that above all else, cookies are still the best stuff on earth!
Have a nice Apocalypse!