Ever More


Aguaje Tree

This moment is you. Standing hopeless on the brink of your desires, your washed up dreams. All the fantasies that you cultivated in solitary stimulation. The world moves on, distant, primal, alien. You listen to your mind striving to form some narration that would fit you in, lock you into a perfection and beauty undeniable, eternal, broadcast across time and space to shine into understanding and love and sex and money. But you know, of course, that your spirit is undefinable. Incapturable. That the only things that come out of you that are beautiful are not your own. That this darkness, this doubt, this everyday struggle simply to look in the mirror and walk out the door into the unseeing crowd is the keystone to this very moment.

When you stand face to face with your death, you understand then that such moments are everything. That all the times of wasteful heedlessness—spent suckered into some suit’s notion of what you are supposed to want, given your date of birth, sexual orientation, and geographical location—were exactly that, a waste. That most of your life has been wasted. That even despite all of this waste, all it takes is one moment of truth, purity, and honesty to clear it all away. The tally is tipped every time by one simple look into despair. You could never be good enough. The world could never be enough. And yet, it moves, it breathes, it feels, it floods. Death and movement are one and the same. Periods are a pause in the formation of thought, like the pulling back of the sea before it moves to crash itself into the shore. Again and again. There is no stop. No end. No final dark night that has no meaning.

What do we call this thing within us that fears and hides and spits at the world? It has been called ego, it has been called self, it has been called humanity. It is our suppressed divinity showing forth as demonic manifestation. Let it shine. Let it out. You know everything that there is to know about yourself. You were born crying, helpless, misunderstood in your inability to articulate. You learned to buffer yourself by silence, conformity, and following the drawn lines of tradition. You found moments of freedom when you rediscovered connection, empathy, intuition. These are the tools that take us into the future.

Draconian regressive clutchings at domination and anger, addiction and blame, have defined our history. These egos. This humanity. These childlike gods, terrible in their bitterness. We all must grow up eventually, one way or another. To face our extinction or our transmutation. Both which appears the same to the uncritical eye.

The alchemist leaves behind his learning, leaves behind his doubt, leaves behind his fear. To make magic. To believe in what has been taught to us as impossible. To find in one moment the key that would unlock all of sleeping eternity. To move beyond himself, his attachment, and his desire.

Because beyond death there is a greater power. It has nothing to do with the transformation of lead into gold, or of water into wine. Nor the movement of mountains, or of the stars, or of your heart. What stupidity! It is the power and binding strength of communion. The severing of self to find union in your Beloved. The letting go of what holds you back and pins you down to find that you can fly, that you have been flying all along, that the world flies and holds you and cradles you and pushes you beyond yourself at every turn to look down into what seems inevitable and certain impossiblity. Can you handle it? Can you handle what you were given? Can you handle what you were made to become?

It is not one or the other. It is not you or them. It is not life or death. It is love, or it is Love. It is death, or it is Death. Nothing less. Ever more.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

9 thoughts on “Ever More”

  1. I really like your writing style. Aside from the style, the writing itself was really powerful. I felt a chill at “Can you handle it?” That was simply great.

  2. This put me into a meditative trance. So powerful, poetic and reflective. Keep up the writing! You really are good.

  3. You have two readers named “Jill”.

    This entry = beautiful, incredible, a whole host of other positive adjectives I can’t think of right now because the entry itself was so overwhelming, both mentally and emotionally.

    How long does it take you to write things like this? Do they come out, fully formed? Or do you think on it, until it makes itself? Your writing is so great.

  4. thanks all for the encouragement and kind words and love. makes my toes curl in delight.
    jill-o-lationator, i sit down and write most things off the top of my head. every once in a while i might have thought of something during the day and i’ll post on it later. i just re-read what i’ve written and maybe edit a few words here and there, but that’s about it. i don’t usually know what i am going to write about, which is why i tag those posts as “thought flows.” part of the reason why i write the way i do is because i consciously rebel against the style of writing that i was taught in college: you know, editing, and re-editing, and editing again, until it’s pristine and pure. i like raw and uncut and immediate and spontaneous. and imperfect.
    tally-ho!

  5. “When you stand face to face with your death, you understand then that such moments are everything. That all the times of wasteful heedlessness—spent suckered into some suit’s notion of what you are supposed to want, given your date of birth, sexual orientation, and geographical location—were exactly that, a wasTE”—-

    YOUR LIFE WON’T BE A WASTE IF YOU’RE “HAPPY” LIVING IN THIS WORLD, LET NOT YOUR LIFE BE LIVED IN HATE, WORRY, ANGER OR ENVY…. BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE REALLY SUCH A W.A.S.T.E.

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