Friday, 21 November 2014

(Don't) Fear the beast

'And it was undying lips, and he spoke Confucius. And I listened, and I was not quenched. And therein was my teacher, the thirst that would not relent, the agony that was twisting, the fire of intent. And it was undying lips, and this is what he said; waste is barren, a misadventure, a deed remitted... What hesitates upon your tongue is a desire that seeks life. And I listened, and I was not quenched. It burned, Master; the flame within. It screams so deep, I dare not speak.  In his eyes I saw the same, and he asked plainly. You wish to deny... You fear the beast. You fear it's existence... The only thing you fear is fear. What is the difference, it is only in your imagining. Have you gazed upon it? Pored upon its ugly face, and listened to the deep earth growl? Is is truly what you think? Or is just a figment and misinterpretation of what you are bringing into being? 
And we stare again, and glare into the flame. I fear seduction and all encompassment... I fear wild abandon... I fear surrender on my bearings. But if what you say is true... Then perhaps I ought to seek, and relent to change. All in time, my child, he said. When one turns the inner on its head, it is only time that dissipates the fear of ego death. And he spoke Confucius, on undying lips. And it was then that I listened, and it was then I found intent. '

There's a spider on my wall. Actually, he's taken refuge right under my light bulb. He's done nothing but shake his web and spin all evening... And it's throwing a shadow on the wall. This tiny thing looks about the size of my face. As per it's shadow. And that is what shadow play always was- casting shapes upon the wall to create a completely different story out of another object. An optical illusion. 
The psyches shadow play is much the same. It twists, and shakes and looks like a frightening creature. All unexpressed potential and unknown origin, uncharted territory and stolen voices- embody this. 
An illusion. A lie. A justification of an internal prison. 
This is what hell is, internally. 
In the poem (or whatever it is!) above- the mention of a misconceived notion of what is being birthed is rather the problem. And the acceptance then- that not only might one be wrong about what it keeps still, but that peace lies in knowing that the answer is not yet apparent. Allowing it's process from subterranean depths to bouyancy and it's first deep breaths- this is a step through fear. A step through hell, and a step through stagnation. 
And with that, something is lifted. 

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