Your World is Your Reflection [Poem]

The mini meadows of green grass that are scattered, strangely, amid the concrete chaos of our cities, emanating simple stillness.


The ruined relics of steel structures in the ominous outskirts of suburbia, which make for amusing adventures to ascend.


The wondrous woods when they are sunny and sublime, or when they are shadowy and secretive, perfect places for reflection and reverence.


The bountiful bookstores filled with timeless treasures on every conceivable concept, visited voraciously by aged, amiable souls.


The blissful beaches where the opulent ocean and the splendorous sky meet, giving tantalizing tastes of a promised paradise.


These are the sort of scenes that I meet myself in, and I often wondered why.

I realize, now, it is because these are the places that are my soul's likeness.

 


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The Purpose of Your Life [Poem]

The Purpose of Your Life 

The purpose of your life 

cannot

simply cannot 

be survival. 

Why? 

Because your quest for survival is doomed. 

No matter what, you are going to die. 

These things may or may not be real: 

Financial Security 

Everlasting Happiness 

True Contentment

But you can be certain that death is real. 

Overwhelmingly real. 

Self-preservation

(the most common of pursuits)

will always end in 

failure. 

Everyone and everything

No matter how much we cherish 

No matter how much we enshrine

No matter how much we fight

will be

hurt

humiliated

before

perishing

and then being

forgotten. 

But I know that even though no one has ever survived

I know that people have been good. 

That goal

is more achievable:

Even though they died as anyone else, 

they still bestowed

soul-smiles

heart-healings 

tenderness-times

and that is enough. 

That goal

is more permanent: 

Every act of goodness is eternal.

Do you not feel the ripples of loving-kindness, 

flowing across time to wash over you?

When death comes to devour you, 

fight him unrelenting tenacity,

just to reveal your strength of character,

so that he can know what measure of man he is taking today:
Not someone whose body outlived their soul, 

but someone who loved life and will miss it and be missed by it. 

Someone who knew that the only true defeat is giving up, 

and the only true victory is to keep fighting, 

someone who audaciously laughs at death, whispering:
“I won!”

Honour, you tease me [Poem]

Honour, you tease me

A Poem by Dylan Grant

Inner Inferno:

Ambition competes with love.

Honour, you tease me. 

As do you, my beloved.

How can I balance these two? 

For in her embrace, 

What need have I of honour? 

I get too content. 

Without prestige’s fragrance,

Would you still long for me, love? 

Even if you would, 

Could I tolerate myself? 

Without victory, 

Without self-overcoming, 

I’m like any other man. 

Oh sweetest woman, 

My heart floods with warmth for you. 

But begone from me!  

Leave my presence and my thoughts.

My fiery blood wants war.

And when I return, 

From slaying my weaknesses, 

And feasting upon

the delights of the struggle, 

We’ll perhaps love as before. 

——————————-- -- -- -- 

Pink Glow [Poem]

Your face is lit up

with a pink glow.

Your eyes say, 

“I love being 

so close

to

you”

A beautiful body and a soul pure, 

how could I ever resist that allure? 

I tell you my naked thoughts

you understand. 

I love you uninhibitedly

you reciprocate. 

I touch you tenderly

you delight in it. 

I trace hearts on your back,

you smile. 

It's your love I get to receive?

It seems too good to believe. 

I want to take you 

to a paradise of cuddles. 

I want to take you

on adventures

and watch 

these shared moments

become 

precious memories. 

It all seems like a gift divine, 

being able to call you mine. 

Now, I ask [Poem]

The opulent sky awes me,
the elegant earth woos me.

The world is beautiful,
so life must be beautiful too.

That's how I
used
to think.

But now,
I ask:

Is the world's beauty only skin deep?
Are blue skies an omen of rainy days to come?
Is summer's gold-green a harbinger of winter's grey-black?

There Are Times [poem]

There are times, Oh Lord, when I see the dots connect, 

and I feel like a character in a drama written by You. 

The universe and my inmost soul seem in perfect harmony, 

and I hear their music and see their dance. 

I chase these moments of ultimate purpose. 

There are times, Oh Lord, where I feel lost

in a land of confusion and darkness.  

Where my dreams are illusions, and my ideals are lies, 

and my whole existence seems absurd and strange. 

Where my soul would rather retreat into apathy, 

than live in this world of nihilistic madness.  

In these moments of confronting the void,         

I always try to look hard for a light, 

and if I cannot find one, I make one. 

There are times, Great God, when I feel ALIVE!

My whole body-mind-spirit bursts with vitality

and I unleash actions upon actions on the world

and cannot do anything else because my whole self

is immersed in this world of doing and becoming and 

PERCEPTION!

But then there are times, Great God, where I merely exist.

I feel as though I am two: I am an observer and the observed…

and of these two, I am mostly the latter. 

I cannot act because I am paralyzed by contemplation, 

and I feel not in the world but above or beyond it..

as though I am a neutral and passive observer of events,

and have never been anything else. 

My senses are too blurred by endless self-reflection, 

and I cannot do anything other than 

Think...

There are times when I feel plugged into other people,

their thoughts, their perceptions, their actions, their spirit... 

and together we create a whole other reality. 

A bigger world than what either of us could do alone.

And then there are times when I feel truly isolated

and an immeasurable gap separates everyone from me. 

And the space in-between that gap

and whatever goes on the other side of it

is just

alien 

to me. 

There are times, Beloved God, 

when my soul feels like a battlefield:

Righteous Reason Versus Sensuous Passion

Burning Ambition Versus Cold Lethargy

Black-Hole Selfishness Versus Overflowing Compassion

Mental Quiescence Versus Mental Activity

My Ideals Versus My Reality

My Actual, Present Self Versus My Imagined, Future Self.

As though life is

nothing other than this constant conflict. 

Worse, Beloved God, there are times

I am not even sure which side 

should win - or 

even is winning! 

Moments like these, My God, are waves

that arise and dissolve in my ocean of consciousness,

and their arising, dissolving, being -

is all a great mystery to me.

I am just a student,

I am just a child.

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Advice from a Disciple on the Artists Path [Poem]

Of the arts, I practice most the art of the word,

either written like stories or spoken in theatre, 

or both, for in poetry the read/speak line is blurred. 

I am a humble disciple on the path of creativity. 

Let me tell you of some insights I have gathered. 

First: Never give up, and desire progress intensely, 

for no artist who was weak or lazy ever mattered. 

With that out of the way, let me speak of inspiration...

For mortals, inspiration is like a bug:

It creeps up when you least expect. 

It doesn’t come if you try to tug

or yell at it to do what you want. 

Inspiration is a great light divine

that flashes and thunders within. 

All Art is never yours or mine 

For it belongs to the gods alone. 

But artists need not live and toil,

under the whims of capricious powers. 

Ego is always the artists’ great foil, 

one free of it receives creativity's fire. 

Truly: The mind is like a bowl,

and a mind already full of itself,

and the consciousness of goal, 

cannot be full of the gods’ gifts. 

Self-Forgetfulness is the secret of the Master.

Therefore, cherish it and the things that cause it,

seeking them will help your art progress faster.

This is advice from a disciple of the artists’ path. 

The self is easily lost in experiences of great suffering or bliss, 

in boredom or novelty, talk or silence, love or loneliness, 

synchronicities or chaos, Nature, and Death. Got this?

And also: In experiences of invincible determination or in surrender. 

At last my final piece of advice:

Absorb the works of other artists, 

whatever your art, any will suffice. 

Learn and be nourished by them. 

For what goes into the mind, 

must also go out of the mind. 

So if art goes in, art comes out. 

And finally: To everyone, be kind. 

May this poem fulfill it’s good intention, 

and may it glorify the Supreme Creator,

we are just Little Creators seeking ascension. 

Cheerfulness and progress to all artists! Aum. 

The Boy, The Man (Long Version) [Poem]

He grew up in a world of softness.
Every want was devotedly satisfied,
every pain urgently healed,
every vice swiftly forgiven.

He became an unnatural thing:
a little boy inside the body of a growing man.

He knew he had the best of all possible burdens.
And he was grateful,
though he was spiritually disfigured.

Within him grew a longing
to be purged of all that is soft!
He craved discipline and danger,
for how can one rise to greatness,
in a world of ease and fairness?

This tension cannot last much longer!

The Boy or The Man:
one of them
must
DIE!

He left home!
Even as it tearfully clung to him.
He went venturing into strange lands,
seeking foes and ordeals menacing enough
to make him strong.

He used to think:
all great frontiers have already been conquered,
so what use is there of tenacity and courage?
But in that strange land he discovered:
The great frontier is ever-new.

He entered the world of trials,
He had to deny wants.
He had to withstand pain,
he had to overcome vice.

He was becoming the man he would be proud to be.

He knew he had the best of all possible blessings.
And he was grateful.

The Boy, The Man (Short Version) [Poem]

He grew up in a world of softness.

He became an unnatural thing:
a little boy inside the body of a growing man.

He knew he had the best of all possible burdens.
And he was grateful,
though he was spiritually disfigured.

Within him grew a longing
to be purged of all that is soft!

This tension cannot last much longer!

The Boy or The Man:
one of them
must
DIE!

He left home!
Seeking foes and ordeals menacing enough
to make him strong.

But
He thought:
"all great frontiers have already been conquered,
so what use is there of tenacity and courage?" 

But
in that strange land he discovered:
The great frontier is ever-new. 

He entered the world of trials.

He was becoming the man he would be proud to be.

He knew he had the best of all possible blessings,
And he was grateful.

Human Becomings [Poem]

What is a human being?
Do you understand what goes on
between your ears, behind your eyes?

We are a cacophony of desirous voices,
each of them trying to shout above the others
to get itself fulfilled.
Have you ever taken the time to hear them?
Those myriad wantings,
each one calling itself "I"?

This one says:
"I want to express my vicious strength!!
Crush, Kill, Maim, Burn, Slice!
And is there anyone strong enough to return the favour?!"
In today's world one rarely listens to this violent "I".
It would be impolite. But sometimes he gets out of his cage.

This one says:
"My too-too tender heart is covered with scars,
each one deep, incurable, and horribly unjust"
says the I of melancholia.

This one says:
"I want to climb the highest peaks!
Where is the trial strenuous enough to purge me of my weakness?!
And who will lavish me with gold and glory when I am victorious?"
says that ambitious I.

This one says:
"Every inch of my skin desires to be touched!
Ah! This physical body was made for ecstasy.
More explosive pleasures! More, more!"
says the I of lust.

This one says:
"Oh, my heart is overflowing with sweetness!
Here, stranger! Here, friend!
Have some of this kindness and love.
There is enough for all!"
says the well-praised I of kindness.

This one says:
"Shiny toys, rare books, golden coins..
I hardly have enough space for it all!
Well then! I will just need more space!"
says the I of greed.

This one says:
"Everything in this world is a weight too heavy
for me to carry. Why should I even bother,
when this bed is so so comfy and warm?"
says the I of laziness.

This one says:
"This world! So much mystery!
I would need six eyes and three brains,
to learn everything I want to know!
Where is a great teacher who will fill my thirsty mind with knowledge?"
says that curious I.

What we call "self" is merely
the temporary compromise
between these innumerable longings.
"Self" is always subject to change,
and "Personality" is simply a set of habits.

You see,
The phrase "human being" is false.
We are not "human beings",
for the word "being" implies fixedness,
of which there is none in us!
The self is a turbulent river-
always changing relentlessly.

We are "human becomings"

for we are not the same person year by year
or day by day
or even from one moment to the next.

But there is more to us than this.
Deep within -
hidden by body, thoughts, emotions, and "I" ' s,
is the soul.

Just as space contains all,
but is itself unaffected by the thing it contains,
so too does the soul
contain your sensations, your past, your moods,
but is itself eternally unchanged by these things.

What you call your self is the weather,
and what is known as the Soul is the sky.
Aum.

If one could feel one's "I" to be located here,
in the soul,
then one could for the first time in their entire lives
be a human being
instead of a human becoming.
Aum.

Life is [Poem]

For the pure, life is blissful! 

For the child, life is a game. 

Life is a contest for the strong!

Life is an adventure for the brave! 

It is a performance for the theatric, 

and a mystery for the knowledgeable.

Life is a song for those who love. 

And for the wise,

Life is merely a dream. 

Aum. 

Observations on an Airplane [Poem]

As I listen to the the fierce roar of the plane engine,

I gaze out the window fortunately placed to my right. 

Sprawling cities transform into toy-like landscapes,

as the plane flies upwards and upwards. 

The opulent clouds I once reverently loved from below,

I now admire their fluffy, mountainous tops from above. 

It is no wonder that the ancients placed their paradises here,

in this mysterious realm between the clouds and the stars. 

Crossroads [Poem]

I am at crossroads.

To my right, 

a path that is safe and secure.

I can see the footprints of those who have walked on this sunny trail. 

The facts tell me it leads to success. 

This path is beautiful and inviting, like a national park. 

I can see friends and family

merely walking down it. 

To my left,
a path that is dark and dangerous.
The path is obstructed by twisted trees.
Though legends tell me it leads to either blissful destiny or utter catastrophe.
This path is beautiful but frightening, like a mountain.
Only the courageous and the audacious
dare embark on it.

Inevitably 

I will have to choose

Inevitably 

when I choose 

that choice has been made forever

Inevitably

when a choice is made

the effects of that choice will turn

into a new set of crossroads. 

Which way will my life go? 
Prudence & I have gone over it 

dozens and dozens and dozens

of times. 

Prudence says, 
"Those who have gone to the right -
their lives are easy, safe, and bright.

Dangerous things may transpire,
down the left road. It could be dire.
Cutthroats, thieves, brutes, and liars!

Life is dangerous and short. Always be cautious.
Why anyone would risk, it makes me nauseous!

Listen to reason, and choose the well-trodden-
perhaps later in life, your horizons can broaden"

Oh, Prudence!
You know that always have I obeyed your voice.
But...
what is that I detect in your words, Prudence?
Do I hear cowardice lurking behind your caution?

Gah! Oh, how I am weary of Prudence!

What do you tell me, Passion? 

“Youth need experience

as Flowers need the sun:
To grow! Embrace the new, 
or growing can't be done.

How can one be a Mythic Hero,
without venturing into the land of trials?
No Enlightenment is had,
for one who dwells in risk-less isles. 

The longings in your heart of hearts,
were planted there by God's hand,
to lure souls to their fated quests.
Fulfilling them is divine command!"

Passion's words
are the sparks that light up my fiery soul!
I know what I must do now!
Today, 

I heed Passion’s wisdom!

Conversation with your Soul [Poem]

I want to have a conversation with your soul. 

I have to have a conversation with your soul 

so I can love you. 

You can’t love what you don’t know. 

Reveal some of your inner self to me. 

But not all at once - 

that would be imprudent. 

A soul is too vast a thing 

for anyone to behold 

all at once. 

But please 

just give me a glimpse.

Then 

I will reciprocate 

and the more we show of our inner selves 

the more we can be loved. 

You hesitate.

I understand. 

To reveal yourself to someone you first have to know yourself. 

We are, all of us, abysses - 

dark, enigmatic, with terrible depth. 

It is silly 

and frightening 

that we can spend all day with ourselves 

but not know who it is that 

gazes out of our eyes, 

speaks out of this mouth. 

touches with these hands. 

But please 

dive into that inner ocean 

and shine the light of introspection upon it. 

No one can do it but you.

Adventuring Partners [Short Story]

There are invisible guards inside of everyones mouths who dutifully ensure that the words we say are appropriate. But if you stay up past midnight these guards start to get a little lazy, and that gives an opportunity for our real feelings and thoughts to slip out. This is why the most meaningful conversations happen at around 3:00am.

Evan was laying in Stella's bed, under her blankets. She was changing into her pyjamas in the bathroom. Evan could still taste the liquorice tea with honey in it that Stella had made him earlier, and he mindfully abided on that sweet sensation in order to get as much enjoyment out of it as possible. He had gone on earlier about how honey and liquorice tea together were the best combination of flavours conceivable. But, of course, that's exactly the kind of thing that he would say since he has a strong penchant for sweet things.

When the sensation of the honey-liquorice tea passed Evan's thoughts went to the person who generously made him the tea. His nostrils caught the subtle leftovers of her scent on the bedsheets and he smiled. It made him think of how pure hearted she was. He likened her in his imagination to an angel.

Evan excitedly awaited Stella's return. When she came out in her polk-a-dotted pyjamas she made a childlike noise that sounded like "meep" or "mawh", as she often did. She slipped underneath the blankets and curled up against Evan, placing her head on his chest. Evan wrapped his arms around her.

Stella, who was almost twenty, had never laid in another bed with a guy before meeting Evan. She loved to cuddle, and her favourite person to cuddle used to be her older sister. But Evan had changed that. As she laid there she was thinking about how much she trusted Evan. This thought filled her with delight, so she hugged Evan as tightly as she could. As soon as she stopped Evan immediately repeated the hug.

They laid there for almost an hour, as content as lazing puppies.  Evans hands gently went up and down her hips. He was happily surprised at how deep the curve of her hips were. Stella relished in the caress of his hands. Her fingers were soothingly playing with his hair. They were not talking, but their senses of touch were engaged in a silent conversation. 

Evan moved his head and looked into Stella's eyes. Her face was lit up with attraction.  She was strikingly beautiful, but to him she was also very mysterious. He wanted to have a conversation with her soul, which he felt he didn't know nearly as well enough as he wanted to. Evan thought about how one cannot truly love what one does not know, so the more we let other people know about us the more we are allowing them to love us.

Evan wished he could lay his soul bare for her, but he knew that would be unwise. The soul is too vast a thing for anyone to behold all at once, even oneself. Instead, Evan thought, we must give glimpses into our unlit, arcane depths to those we are compelled to to love and know.

Stella had a curious look on her face, because she knew that he was about to say something, but he was taking a while to say it. The reason, of course, is that Evan realized that in order to get her to reveal some of her soul to him he would have to begin, and that would make Stella reciprocate.

It is true that one can only love someone as much as they have revealed themselves to you. The more we show of our true selves to someone the more that self can be loved. However, in order to reveal yourself to someone you first have to know yourself. We are all abysses - dark, enigmatic, with great depth. And we are enigmatic first of all to ourselves. Somehow we can spend all day with ourselves and yet never really know who it is that sees out of the eyes we gaze out of. When we dive into our inner oceans and shed the light of introspection upon that abyss within we never know what we might pull out.

Evan had dived many, many times. Sometimes when he dived he was terrified by the monsters that dwelt within the shadows of the soul. Other times he was amazed by the pearls and treasures that lay hidden deep within.  He had collected every insight he had about himself and mentally recorded them. For him it was not an issue of knowing nothing about himself, it was an issue of which page from his mental records to share. There were things in those records, after all, that were terribly embarrassing. Some of them were shameful. He was cautiously looking for a page that would let Stella know more about him and entice her to share more about herself as well, but that wouldn't lower what he imagined to be her opinion of him.

"What are you thinking about?"
Stella abruptly asked, interrupting Evan's thought process, which was all for the better because he would never really have come to a conclusion about what to say unless he was put on the spot.
"I was just thinking....I've always had a great yearning to travel and see the world. I want to visit every continent. Every single one. Even Antarctica. Whenever I say that people are always like, 'Oh? Do you want to visit Antarctica too?' and I'm like, Yes goddammit I also want to see Antarctica. I am fully aware that I said  'I want to visit every continent', and that Antarctica is one of them. But of the seven I want to go to Europe the most".

Stella piqued up,
"I visited France once".

Evan's face lit up.
"Oh my god! That's amazing!"

"I was in the south of France, and I was staying with a home stay family. I visited this forest that was so magical, like it came right out of a story book. I was in a cave once, too, and I was reading in there for a little bit. It was so much fun to just wander around the town I was in, just by myself. I felt so free and independent..." she longingly sighed, wishing she could go back.

With every word she said about it she got more and more excited. This is precisely the kind of thing he wanted to know about Stella. Within the both of them there dwelt an adventurous soul that longed to see the world. She could see that he was paying attention to her. That was one of the things she liked about him, he was a great listener.

"I have some pictures of France. Would you like to see them?”

Evan almost leapt out of the bed.
"I'd love to!"

The two of them untwined and got out of the bed. Stella sat on the chair in front of her desk and opened up her laptop. Evan wrapped his arms around her as he stood behind the chair, unable to keep his hands off of her. Stella clicked on a picture that was tucked away in a folder on her computer. 
"Is that the magical forest you were in?" Evan asked.
"Yup!"
Of course it must be, Evan thought. On the desktop was a picture of a complex web of gnarled trees with dark-green leaves. 
Stella opened another one, “This is the town I was in.”

Evan’s jaw dropped. It was a photo of a quaint medieval village. The picture was so enticing to the adventurous spirit that it looked as though it belonged in a travel magazine, but it was even more enticing since it was a real photograph taken of a real town with nothing staged. 

“You’ll get to travel one day” Stella said to Evan in a tone of optimistic certainty that filled him with hope. This hope revitalized his fantasies so that they became more alive. He held her tight and kissed the top of her head from behind the chair. She smiled and tilted her head up, and they shared a kiss on each others lips. They both felt elated and grateful for each other, each of them unable to understand how they could be so lucky.

“I want to see the world with you. You would be the best adventuring partner ever” said Evan, his head so far up in the clouds that he was bringing Stella up there with him.
“Ditto”

Esoteric Whispers [Poem]

Sometimes I feel like my Soul and the Universe are having conversations.

I’m just the Listener. They speak Symbolic Languages I don’t understand. 

They are close companions.  

They confess their secrets with each other, they laugh with each other (and at me..),

they discuss about how to help me help them, they check in on each other…

and I don’t understand. 

But sometimes, just sometimes, I penetrate the language barrier.

Then I hear their esoteric whispers, understand the Messages, 

and feel the ecstatic knowledge. 

Is it really so crazy to just believe?

Is it really so crazy to just believe that this Life is meaningful?

Is it really so crazy to just believe that when I feel bliss, I’m on to something? 

Is it really so crazy to just believe that the inner and outer dots can be connected? 

Is it really so crazy to believe? 

If it is,
I’d rather be crazy.

Our Memories [Poem]

The music of our memories:

laughing with you, being drawn to you

is as ameliorating as the rhythms of jazz.

The vision of our memories:

talking with you, being adventurous with you

is as beautiful as a painting.

The feeling of our memories

walking with you, being consoled by you

is as comforting as the softest beds.

The fragrance of our memories

knowing you, being close to you

is as soothing as herbal tea.

The flavour of our memories

holding you, being grateful for you

is as sweet as caramel chocolate.

Celebration of the Senses [Poem]

The fog of thought blurs my vision, and I cannot the world see. 

My mind is fixated on responsibilities and the world’s mysteries. 

But a refreshing breath of mindfulness awakens my soul, 

so I can behold this reality of which I am part of a whole. 

Before my eyes were open, but my Sight was blind. 

Now that my mind is at rest and I step out of the grind,

my hungry eyes want to take in everything there is to gaze:

O Life, let me see all of your beautiful, ephemeral ways! 

Let me see the leaves and their labyrinths of texture, 

let me see every shape in every colour and mixture!

O Colour! The redness of red, the blueness of blue! 

How deeply my Sight wishes to connect with you!

The simple magic of the baby snow hugging elderly trees, 

and clouds peacefully walking - O, what wonders are these!

Friends! Shrug your burdens off your backs, and let’s go!

Let us frolic, play, and laugh! For will this last? We don’t know.

All of you! Nature’s fair children, you who still have some vitality. 

All things in this world must pass, inner and outer, that’s reality. 

Our wealth of time is too poor, let us not spend it on crying.

Let’s share the love in our hearts and enjoy this life's dying. 

The Weight of Fate [Poem]

A youth is a seed. 

                       Any seed, When gently tucked into healthy soil,                          

And generously nurtured

with cool water and warm sunlight 

with diligence, patience, and compassion

 can triumphantly emerge as a noble tree.

Any seed 

can do that

but not on its own

that’s where you come in. 

What is better than feeling
that the steps you take are
carrying you forward 
on the path of your own 
enlightenment? 

Well, experience tells me it's better than self-atrophying 
just because you can hardly bear the weight of your own fate. 

I tell you: 
the enigmatic gods don't put responsibilities on your shoulders 
unless they have faith in you. 
What an honour a burden is! 

Tell that to yourself the next time you say: 

"I am too weak to be a gardener of society, 
I don't have a green thumb for humankind"

Instead, know this:

"To support is to be supported, 
to nurture is to be nurtured"

Do you not see the subtle hands
of the puppeteering gods
pulling the ecstatic strings of destiny?

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Inner Warfare [Poem]

Oft have I cried, "Lead me not into temptation"

I did not say it like the parrots in their pews.

Truly, truly, I said it in my heart of hearts. 

When will my piety at last receive its dues? 


Because still the God of my Spirit clashes

and quarrels against the Gods of my Flesh.

Every time one wills NO! the other coaxes YES! 

Will I ever rest from this fight, and breathe afresh? 


Fall a thousand times, rise a thousand and one. 

Quetism  bestows me with holy detachment, 

and Prayer fills me with mystical bliss. 

Armed with these, I'll have freedom from sense entrapment. 

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The Performance [Poem]

My soul is a mystery play;

I  know not those invisible actors, 

the kings and jesters, 

queens and knights, 

that love and die within myself. 

All I can see is their performance. 


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The Consciousness of Matthew, Part 3/3: The Nihilists World

This is the final part of a three-part story. 

Here is a link to the first part: This Solid World 

Here is a link to the second part: That Subtle World

. 

THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF MATTHEW 

Part III: The Nihilist’s World?

You are pathetic. 

Who said it? I don’t remember.
Was it even said, or just implied?
Was the accuser another or myself?
Did it happen in reality or my imagination?

Either way, the words impacted.

*****

Half-consciously I float in a never-ending abyss for what feels like aeons. Sometimes thoughts will bubble forth from my barely existing mind. Thoughts like: Is this the nothingness that I wished for earlier? The place that the unremembered scenes of a dream go to? 

Or thoughts like this: Ah, I cannot stand or walk or fly. I cannot hear, see, touch, smell anything. I cannot speak. I can barely conceive of who I am or where I am or what I am. But there is still a nascent sense of “I am”, still a lingering sense of existence. So it can’t be the nihilism that some half-remembered entity wished for who knows how many ages ago… 

The clearest thought, though still only half-formed, that ever happened in those ages was this: I wish that the lingering existence that I remain as would just evaporate and I could become exactly like that which I see around me and feel within: Impersonal and non-conscious nothingness. Right now I feel like fake nothingness - that is, I’m still technically a thing. What I want is pure and complete nihility. Somewhere in my barely-conscious state I am beginning to think that I may never reach pure self-annihilation, and that thought fills me with anguish. I want to scream but I do not have a voice. I want to ignore my pain but I am already ignoring existence as much as it is possible for it to be ignored, and that makes me weep, and then I try to ignore my weeping. 

I was like this for what felt like untold numbers of days, until one day my time drifting in that nihilistic void was interrupted. 

I heard the sound of an alarm clock ringing. It causes the lifetime of a being named Matthew to come back into remembrance… but who is this Matthew? This alarm clock ringing is the first noise I have heard for who knows how long, so it sounds like the most rapturous music I have ever heard. 

Finally I begin to see a body in a bed. The bed looks familiar, and so does the body. This is the first sight I have seen in who knows how long, so it makes my eyes ecstatic. I see two older people, one male and one female, trying to shake the boy in the bed awake. They are crying, “Matthew! Matthew! Wake up! You're late for work!”.

The female starts to ask the male what he thinks is wrong with him. They both look extremely worried. “If he was just asleep, he would have woken up by now” “You’re right honey.. oh no!” The female shoots out of the room, and the male sits on the bed, still trying to budge his son awake.

The female returns and says, “Some of my sleeping pills are missing. He must have taken a bunch of them! Sweetie, he isn’t just sleeping, he’s knocked out!”. I can piece together that the older female is the mother to the boy and likewise the older male is the father to the boy. 

I stare at this scene for a while as memories keep flooding in. Finally enough memories come back for my consciousness to vaguely cognize what is happening.

That’s me in the bed, or some kind of identity that I’ve put on. That’s my parents trying to wake me up. 

My mother starts to cry. I see her hug my body in the bed. “Matt! We love you! Please wake up!”

I feel a sense of identification with that body. I feel a sense of warmth as my mother hugs it. This warmth, a mother’s hug. I have never felt anything safer or softer. I feel like a little baby. Then my father comes over and puts my hands in his strong grip. He starts to tear up too. They are both afraid of loosing their boy. His grip feels safe and strong. How could any harm ever come to me with these beautiful giants looking after me?

I hear them say I love you. For the first time in who knows how long I feel an emotion. It feels familiar and brand new at the same time. 

*****

Love is a dancing star in my chest, 
Singing: “Out of many, you are the best!” 

Love is a light peeking through the Abyss, 
revealing that in this world there can be bliss.

Oh, how this feeling awakens my dormant soul, 
enticing it’s timeless longing to be part of a whole! 

*****

This feeling makes me feel more and more alive. I begin to feel a body form around my nascent sense of “I am”. I feel arms, legs, eyes, ears, a tongue, a face. Finally I begin to remember who I am. I am Matthew. But where am I? The last thing I remember… I… I was eaten alive. Does that explain where I am? Is this Death? 

I connect the feeling of love my parents pour out on me to the love I have felt in the past. I remember playing in the schoolyard as a kid. I remember being connected to a group of fellow human beings and thinking how awesome they are, and wanting to put a smile on their faces and feeling great when I did. I feel loved. I feel like I want to love others in return and for its own sake. 

A radiant golden light comes off of my etheric body. Why do I hate myself? How can I justify that when so many people love me? If they can love me, why can’t I?

That last thought makes my entire body burst with a divine, transcendental light. 

*****

I love you!

A friend said it in a time of distress.
The words had the tune of sincerity.
They were as medicine to me then.
It is a memory for which I am grateful.

Best of all, the words uplifted.

*****

As I dwell in the divine light that surrounds me I feel happy and glad to be alive. Why would I ever want to be nothing when there is so much to live for, so many things to experience? A nothing could never feel loved. It could never know a mother’s kiss and father’s hug, or the fun of friends, or the joy of simply being. 

A nothing could never be experiencing this moment. Only a something could do that. I love this amazing moment of floating in a void and feeling divine. If we love one moment, do we not then love all of existence? Nothing is self-sufficient, not us and not moments. In order for this incredible moment to arise all other moments previous to this one - even the moments of self-pity and self-hate - had to happen to. All of eternity had to happen for this one happy moment to happen - so is not all of existence then in some way good, if it could lead to this? Why would I ever want to be nothing? What an absurd thought! 

A door appears in front of me. I don’t know where it leads but I know I must go through it. I back up and start to fly out of the door. 

As soon as I exit the door I am flying out of the Daemon of Hatred’s mouth. 

“What? Impossible. I ate you alive. You are dead!” the Daemon of Hatred is appalled at seeing me fly out of his own mouth and bathed in a divine light. 

The rays of divine light coming off of me completely drown out the shadows coming off of the reptilian Daemon monster. He yells: “So you have come back for another beating, have you? Shall I devour you a second time?!” 

I visualize the love I have for my family and friends, and the love they have for me, becoming two katanas in my hands - Storge and Philia. I descend on to the ground, ready to fight. 

The Daemon roars, and I remain silent. It runs towards me to slash at me with one of his deadly claws. I wait for him to come near me so I can time my strike just so. As his claws are seconds away from hitting me I swiftly strike them with my katana blades, shattering his claws. The Daemon yells in pain and bewilderment. He did not think I would be able to hurt him. He sends his other clawed hand swooping down on me and I jump up to avoid it and slash the Daemon of Hatred in the face. 

When he recovers from the blow and I land back on the ground he exclaims, “This is impossible! Where are you getting all of this power from?!” 
“I get it from my mother and father, from my friends who are like sisters and brothers! I have grown beyond the person I was before! You have no power over me now! Against these blades of love, you are nothing but a paper tiger!”

The Master-Daemon lets out a primal roar. I charge at him when I am near enough he punches the cavern ground with his fists, shattering the floor and sending me flying up to the air. He leaps up and catches me in his jaws. 

His stalactite-like teeth pierce through my etheric skin and I bleed luminous blood. Having caught a hold of his prey he shakes me around like a dog and his chew-toy. I regain enough strength in the middle of all this torment to repeatedly stab him in the face with my two katana blades that are still in my hands. 

We fight like this - the Daemon trying to tighten his jaws to finish me off, me frantically stabbing him with the last bits of determination I have left - until finally one of us yields. The shadowy reptilian giant falls over and evaporates into nothingness as I land back on the ground. 

My wounds drip with glowing blood. I turn back to exit the cave very slowly, but the cave begins to disappear stone by stone and I am left floating in a white void. 

I’m not afraid. This seems like a very peaceful place. But I am eager to wake up so my parents know I am safe. 

From behind an all-too-familiar strobe light emerges. I turn around and it is the radiant flying tentacle from before. I prime my swords but the tentacle does not look like it wants to fight. 

Instead I see more tentacles begin to appear around it, and then a bald man with beautiful angelic wings appears around those tentacles. 

“You have come a long way, Matthew” the angel who is tentacles from the waist down tells me. His voice sounds unbelievably empathic. He wraps my bleeding body around in his glowing tentacles and a healing energy pours out of them, closing my wounds and filing me with renewed energy and peace. 

He unwraps his healing tentacles around my body and begins to speak. “There is much I have to tell you. I am the one who put you through these trials today. Matthew, you are a gifted dreamer. But you must understand that the dream world is powerful. You came in here today wishing that you could stay in here forever, and it was very possible that that dream could have come true. I came in and interrupted your thought process in order to stop that thought from becoming manifest. When you wished to become nothing that too could have become manifest, and when you become nothing you could not come back. But it was not enough for me to interrupt your thought process, I had to make sure you would not come into the astral plane and think those thoughts again by making you realize that life is good and worth living, and that too many people care about you for you to be stuck here in the dream world all day or become nothing. So I orchestrated all of this. I made you fight those creatures so you could overcome the negative feelings of self-pity and self-hate, and I knew that your parents would come rushing in with concern and helped you to see that.”

That was a lot to take in, but it makes as much sense as anything else that has happened to me recently.

“And what are you exactly?”
“I am a denizen of the astral plane, or as you call it, the dream world. We exist on a deeper layer of the astral plane than what you humans can reach in your dreams, though every now and again some of you can manage to reach it. You probably think I am a fascinating creature, but what about you? Ah, humans are the most fascinating creature of all! Part animal and part astral. You are all of you living paradoxes. If it weren’t for your kind we Aengels would be terribly bored”
“I have so many questions for you, first-“
“Stop” he interrupted me “You are an 18-year old human boy. You have enough on your plate without having to worry about Aengels or the Astral Plane. Next time you come to the Astral Plane, and I hope you do, please be more responsible.”

I could feel this white void vanishing, and my awareness exiting my etheric form. From now on I will balance my dreaming life and my “real” life. I couldn’t wait to feel my soft skin and my veins that pulse with vitality. I couldn’t wait to see my mom and dad and let them know everything is okay. I couldn’t wait to see my friends and maybe even make some new ones. I couldn’t wait to live my life in the “real”, solid world. 

*****

I'm becoming a day dreamer and a night contemplater,

I'm becoming a morning zombie and a night mystic,

a part-time philosopher, part-time poet, part-time mystic,

and full-time spacey-outey weirdo.

I kinda like it.

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THE END