One of the most cowardly things ordinary people do is shut their eyes to facts.
Look. Here. And listen close. Gather in meandered eardrums. I'm to prepare a toast, of sorts. See. Some misunderstand. Others directly misuse. But you. Be wise. So that you can know. For generational distractions Has oft absolved us from life satisfaction Truth hidden in abstractions from the masses As the asses peddle the lie.
So, I hit the reset.
Every day is a gift.
Every. Single. One.
Journey has been bumpy. But that seems par for the course.
If life was predictable, wouldn’t be much fun.
Renting a small bedroom from a friendly Moroccan gentleman at the moment. Situated in a west suburb of London, about 25 miles from the city centre.
Rolling hills, wooded parks, and tiny roads.
Hazy sunsets and weekly rainstorms.
A more manageable transition to be sure.
Just me, and ideas.
It wasn’t smooth sailing.
But one must enjoy the ride.
We only get these flesh suits once, after all.
What else is there to do?
The first stop was in Brighton, which is off the southern coast near the English Channel. Spent the month of October cooped in a tiny room near the outskirts of town.
“Sophia” it’s called.
‘Cept I didn’t feel very wise.
Still in a mindset of survival, unsure of what I was to do
I was also completely self-absorbed, and knee deep in conspiracy theorizing.*
About the world at large, but mostly about the events surrounding my apparant and sudden demise*.
To be completely honest, I wasn’t the most likeable person.
But you couldn’t tell me nada.
(Still can’t to be fair. I’m learning.)
I just have a low tolerance for bull.
At that point, I’d rather burn a bridge while still standing on it than listen to you.
I didn’t know which way was up, and was effectively stuck in a state of catatonic indifference.
Deer in the headlights, so to speak.
Regardless, my landlord was a straight shooter – and fellow conspiracist – so I didn’t have to worry about offending. A breath of fresh air for a serial people pleaser.
He also had dogs. W.
Besides, constantly explaining oneself to humans can get tiring.
Will keep this chapter short, because in truth – I’m content now.
Digging up past experiences isn’t very pleasant, nor at this point, constructive. I have said all I have to say, and although not every question has been answered in full, it’s high time I lay these demons to rest. Past is past.
Time to take action, and move forward.
But I can’t lie – I was angry.
A number of ancient traditions consider emotion and thought as participative in their own realm of supernatural experience.
Not as much an internal state brought about by reductive processes, but a more external form of inspiration, experienced by the receiver as a feeling, or an idea.
This is most clear to me within Hindu polytheistic traditions, or even in the Greek Parthenon of gods and goddesses, but is evident in Christian texts as well.
There are a number of examples of divine channelling and direct communication with God throughout scripture, and in regard to more ‘simple’ matters like anger, we’re instructed to, “let not the sun go down upon your wrath” (Ephesians 4:26).
There is an intentional personification happening here, and I think that’s for a reason. Whether psycho linguistically, or semantically, we become possessed.
This meant I had to let it go.
I had to exercise. Or, to exorcise.
The sense of betrayal I felt towards close friends and family.
The deep sense of responsibility I felt to uphold an ideal I had no part in creating.
The moral ambiguity of an existence disjointed from one’s ultimate path to Reality.
The constant and intense anger I once felt had been reduced to momentary pulses of internet aggravation.
I’d consider this a vast improvement, all things considered.
Back to Brighton.
The dogs were dope, the people were predictable, the food was…
Well it was food.
Only, I was running out of money.
I needed a job, but was still too proud – or maybe too dumb – to get one.
I was biding time.
I didn’t care much about money. Or even being liked. I just wanted to be heard, to be understood. By anyone.
But alas, C.R.E.AM.
November 2nd, I got kicked out.
Had about $40 to my name and nowhere to stay. So eventually, I decided to get a bus ticket to the ol’ stomping grounds. Central London.
Figured mom was still out there.
Mind you, I hadn’t talked to her in a few months. I’m hard-headed you see, and so it’s difficult for me to ask for help. From anybody. For anything.
It’s a flaw. I’m working on it.
Anyway, spent the next day walking around the city. Pretending to be a tourist.
Really, I was homeless.
And had no clue when I’d be back in a bed, let alone a stable environment.
Life has a funny way of revealing a false floor each time you think you’ve hit rock bottom. It’s like those breakaway tables in movies, except not nearly as cool.
Finally, called momma.
Used my last few dollars to get a bus to Queen Victoria Station.
And sat. And waited.
*Remembered that mom moved to the burbs half a decade ago*
*Still no call back*
*Phone on 4%*
*American chargers don’t fit into European outlets*
Hopefully, you get the picture.
Honestly, I must have stayed at every Airbnb in Buckinghamshire.
Life is wild. We’ll just leave it at that.
No need to harp on it.
No real lesson here.
I guess, my goal was to communicate that the struggle is very real.
That doesn’t excuse my behaviour, but, perhaps can give some context.
Life is good, but life is weird.
Even Jesus flipped tables.
Regardless. We love. Relentlessly.
It’s a delicate balance. Impossible really.
To bear life’s ills in full purview, and still forge a path to a better future.
To be beacons of light in a void of darkness.