Forgiveness loves hate.

I have come to see that I have had much more of a hand in the unhappiness I've endured in life than I realized in the midst of all of the good intentions that brought it about. I must, at last, forgive myself.

I'm reading through my years-old letters.

[OMITTED: A bunch of stuff I quoted from a previous message written to me.]

AAAaaaahahahahaha. That's the funniest goddamned joke I've told in years.

My humor might be a little off. I [insert myriad plausible excuses here, but know - in spite of my best efforts to rebuff its significance - that I really do think it's funny, and wish I didn't give such a shit that you might that I type all of this shit in here and realize a singularly and extemporaneously honest moment within my e-mailing experience. I don't know why I always sought your approval - it was reflexive, and I was hurt like a child when you (or any male I looked up to - "respected" wasn't enough) was disappointed in me.]. Wow. I can grow just typing to you, without sending this or anything.

I didn't intend to bring you with me on this therapeutic outing, nor did I request you come along - and I appreciate it.











Lata

(heh)




========================================================
[And the follow-up, begun an hour later]
========================================================



It's now that I get the real opportunity to explore myself - the previous message having been a spur-of-the moment thing, within the last minute, instantaneously, I was overcome by a sense of dire regret. I was appalled by the emotion as soon as I identified it, and my abrupt analysis pinpointed some of my current boundaries - now I know where to apply pressure. I have found a flaw.

I can say that because I have determined what I desire my perspective - inclusive of character, personality, beliefs, spirituality - to be. Until I began typing that sentence, my fingers stumbling, unresponsive under the weight of the realization that they were involved in granting, I did not know what it was that I wanted - I knew what I wanted, but I did not know that it was what I wanted. I visualized what I felt, and it was so simple - I see a dome, of a consistency I can't describe but would say is smooth, with a mist over it; the dome stretches at too abrupt an angle to be seen for more than a few strides, or maybe eternity - I have no concept of my own size and stride, only my experience of the place; still, I sense forever behind that translucent veil as much as I sense the edge.

Does it get better than that? Honestly, please. I'd say "for my writing," or "in my style," but I operate from within my own perspective and see brilliance - though [I doubt] it may change momentarily, I am possessed by a surety of purity now.

I'm sure I meant to type something else. Ah, yes:
The "open plain" la-dee-dah wouldn't be worth jack shit without its collaborative explanation, which is this: I sense the plain, somehow see and feel it. I purely sense it; it is a meditative plain that is sustained in spite of my focusing on writing this. While replaying my reaction (like TiVo, man), I sensed something jagged outside of the area immediately around me concurrently with the "what the fuck did I just do" moment. It was a a momentarily intense awareness of - followed by a residual awareness of - a distant location, tangible within which were the features of this flaw, this jagged outcropping of the same substance that makes up the plain, it seems. I haven't figured out how to get rid of it yet, but I think I just have to stay near it, and it will dissolve. I sense that that is the truth, as I know it is the truth, just as I know that all I have to do is think of its features and I am next to it, and that, if I want it to leave, I must hold myself there in awareness of it, in spite of my protest. Can it really be that simple?

Awesomeness.

I enjoy these, as they are as much my creation as they are that of some dimensionally greater being.
...
I believe I've conveyed to you before that I believe that awareness as we humanly define it is the frontier between the "third" and "fourth" dimensions? I think our lives would look like trees within the fourth dimension, too - as we would see the work of some second-dimensional consciousness (as I think awareness is the frontier between all dimensions) within a plant.

Typewriter Journal from Year Unknown (Holy shit, this guy could write.)

[PRE-Typewriter Journal: What the hell has the world come to? I am authoring this post wearing, begrudgingly acknowledging its convenient, cozy warmth, of all things - a Snuggie. What has happened? Only these prerequisites were met: 1) The home in which I reside was constructed with french doors which feature an extreme heat gain and heat loss through each day and night; 2) I stationed my desktop computer near the aforementioned doors; 3) Four Snuggies were shipped, errantly, to me (it remains inexplicable how my name was applied to what was my grandmother's order; it arrived at her home around Christmas time, and was held, unopened, and sent to me). /PRE-Typewriter Journal]


Other than leaving this place a better world for its current and future occupants and/or preparing myself for death, I see no point in my being here. I am deeply curious as to what the best thing for me to do to better this world is. I'm not all too concerned with the answer, though, or seeking it. My first priority is finding my path, and all that includes (namely resisting distraction in whatever form it comes in, as I have allowed my self to be distracted much lately, nearly to a point where all of my recent progress was forgotten). I don't know whether a pure, constant distraction-free life is something that I am capable of leading, though. I'm certain that, if it felt right and I felt whole in doing it, I could; I'm worried that I may not want to, though. I'm sure it will come in time. I can't expect to re-make myself in a day, or a year.

What I have been feeling more and more frequently lately is interesting, and it fills me with hope. I feel what I can only describe as an anticipation of, or the precursor to contentedness. I am calm. I am not so dissatisfied with my life or the prospects for my future, even when taking into account that they may not change all that much. I hope also, but do not worry (my mood does not allow for it; I mean I am unable to worry - for now), that this soothed state is temporary, like the euphoria of my infrequent manic spells. Somehow, I know it isn't, despite the haunting thought that life has taught me differently of such positive things.

I think this is harder to describe because, at least as much as it is a new feeling (or mood or mindset; it is the state of my mind and soul), it is the tangible void of something old and familiar, the absence of something that had a stranglehold on me and constricted tightly around the organ in me that feels happiness and contentment.

Self-sustained unacceptability.

I know myself to be the bastard creation of, among other things, what I knew and what I was told, and remain unable to accept the unity of those halves - a condition self-sustaining, as would be its inverse. What choice can I make to become something else? I strive now to maintain my connection to this place where I am at peace, my state of balance, my absolute state. I am both, now; stating this makes it so. I shall see if it lasts.

As I drifted to sleep,

I dreamt that some frustrated, ancient being that dwells along with me inside of me was smothering me down into the earth with its enveloping arms, weary of my self-loathing, its hands stifling my pleas; I screamed within my thoughts "How can you judge me so? You know me!" I sensed from the titan, featureless and translucent, a smile as he faded away, leaving me to the void. My head rang with echoes of my own voice as it spoke a thought not my own - "why, indeed?"

I still do.

I hoped the whole time I was breathing into her cold, wet nose; I cradled my terrified hope, certain of its impending end, certain that it was going to be extinguished and be consumed. I think that's what drove me so far from the experience. I could not hold hope dear; it was certain to hurt me. It hurts right now, until tears, to recall it.

How did I ever manage to believe that I was detached from it? I felt that question intensely as I typed it, but no more; I know how I managed to believe it - I was detached. I skipped town and analyzed the situation and acted in a manner that I calculated maximized the likelihood of the puppy's recovery... and of the salvation of that hope.

I am either utterly attached to, or utterly detached from any aspect of my perspective, including experiences - as they happen, and in my recollection of them. Those superlatives raise some questions; I've some meditation to do.

I remember that one time,

you cried in my arms. It was amazing, to hold you, so much more dear to me than I'd ever intended you to become, and to listen to you cry. You were always so strong, so ready for anything; your sobs rocked us both while I inhaled and kissed your hair. How did I deserve an experience so beautiful? Wherever I go, I have seen enough love to last me. I'm still hungry for more; no longer do I feel a pressing need, but a very patient desire. I'm am content to wait.

Chose escape. Why?

The reason that I am so prone to 'zone' is this: as a child, I made a choice based on what I had come to know of the world, that nearly all of the positive experiences that moved me most, the meaningful and beautiful relationships and adventures - each of them took place in a book I was reading. I had a yearling, and a faithful dog, and black stallion; I lived on the ranch, or in the castle, and I was able to do right, and to have the satisfaction of seeing the fruits of my righteous labors.

In that common reality, though, I knew only loss. Everyone and everything in my life seemed to be a disappointment or, if anything else, a higher perch from which to fall from at the next one.
Which existence was I likely to choose as a child?

Well, I chose it, and I'm left as an adult to traverse the wilderness between this wonderful, carefree world which I made my home, and that one. I must resist the draw, the fear of leaving this safe place, only to climb towards a more painful existence - one that, when I am trapped within it, transforms me into a son, a brother, a cuckolded husband, a father, and a friend whom others rely on. I don't feel ready to be any of those things.