Friday, 26 September 2014

la Chambre

I entered through a white door to find myself in a familiar room. The room had four walls, as did the entrance. It was eight o'clock in the evening. I parted the drapes so that I could imagine myself being outside. Inside and outside never seemed as different to me as they did to others. But it is responsible to be outside, so I will pretend to be outside. I was always held inside of something. Never in, never out, always in between the hands of Time and the feet of Space. Those hands could only carry so much until they made it to Heaven. Those feet could only plunge so deep into the waters. I watched some minutes pass by on a digital clock. What an absurd thought that I am progressing at the mere sight of these shifting shapes! And the thought that I can tell that a minute has passed through the changing of a shape. And that I am certain that only one minute has passed after all these different shapes have changed form. And I even know the value of the shapes! These shapes mean more than shapes.

I encountered the beast when I was in the room. Me and the beast encountered each other daily. I walked across the room to find the beast sleeping, and stroked my arm across its body. A particular sadness toppled over me. The beast seemed subordinate to me when it was asleep, but when it was awake I became very helpless. I know that I can make the beast sleep or awaken, so it is within my control to will either one of these, but when I choose the latter it controls me. It controls me every time.

The only thing that can go beyond this room are these prayers. The prayers which flow from the mind and to God. I doubt both this mind and this God. Where is the floor?

Friday, 19 September 2014

God is Purpose

"Time is of the essence" echoes in my head, while everyone else here lacks the sincerity that I hold fast to. Just sitting in their chairs, biding time. And truly there's nothing favorable coming for them (but what about me?). And truly I don't know that. And truly I don't know many things.

As if sitting in this chair could bring me toward purpose. As if anything I may write could bring me toward that. As if anything they'd say could bring me toward that. There's no going toward purpose, that is, if I continue going toward myself. For if I was looking for purpose, that must indicate that I do not possess it.

But what if the purpose already exists inside of me? What if it's a simple task of uncovering? With my theology in tact, I suspect that these questions are excuses. I only want to make myself a god. "I have more control over myself than any other thing, and I want something to be a god, so I'll be that something, that god." Worship of the self.

God is purpose and that's why I sense distance from purpose. This occurs because I have not seen the fullness of God. Yes, the Holy Spirit may dwell inside of me, but my body is not the origin of that which dwells inside. That is why I can't go toward myself to find purpose, since the Holy Spirit exists beyond my personal existence.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

Where does this Holy Spirit exist inside of me? I'm not sure, I can't touch it, it's immaterial.

To conclude with some thoughts on the human soul. For a long time I have thought of the soul as something that comes into existence but becomes eternal. This is contradictory though, because the word eternal implies no beginning and no end. How can the soul begin to exist when there's not an end? And I do believe in the afterlife, so I do believe that there is no end, so how is it that this endlessly existing immaterial object could have a beginning?

I could have been wrong. Maybe every soul exists eternally, apart and within body, and it's a matter of individuals recognizing that they have souls?

Saturday, 13 September 2014


I should have doubted you. You had no stigmata to show, for your body was an untouched body. Perhaps that is why I wanted to feel you? And perhaps that is why you also wanted me to feel you? I collapsed in prayer when I heard the music. I had such faith that my prayers made it to you, though they never did. It was the act of folding my hands in a desolate sanctuary.

The way in which Jesus departed from the world is certainly troubling. The body left but the spirit remained. That might sound pleasant, but it is not. And I do not believe that to be the Truth, for it just seems true to me. When Jesus was in the world, his presence went beyond that of a sacrament, for a sacrament is a mere symbol - Jesus was both the symbol and the symbolized. But as of now, we have the symbolized without the symbol. I want the symbol. It is a human tendency to worship the symbol rather than what is being symbolized. The symbol appears to be more real when it is placed against what is being symbolized. And even with my conviction that the symbolized is more important than the symbol, I feel that the symbol is more worthy of my attention.

Alas, I am lost! I am losing. But have I lost? I am unsure of how to direct my attention toward the symbolized. Please, let me go further! These human eyes cannot see any further.

Friday, 12 September 2014

Is Self-Perception Innaccurate?

Two days back, I heard somebody share the idea that "if we saw ourselves walking down the street, we wouldn't recognize that person as being ourselves." My reaction was one of sarcastic eyes and tired frustration. This reaction had no philosophical basis, at least, not one that I had understood at the moment. But the more I thought about it, the more I became advanced in having a clear understanding of why this inference frustrated me.

I am not fond of this idea because it's naive toward the perception of others, the perception that conscious people have of other perceptions; the perception that a person has when they observe the observation that others have of themselves. For example, let's say that I commissioned a talented artist to draw a portrait of me. If I were to compare that portrait to what I see when I look into the mirror, I would think that the two images would be quite similar (in fact, I think they would be very similar). This is a good reason to believe that the perceptions we have of ourselves are accurate.

Friday, 5 September 2014


As I should have been, given that the light sky had surrendered to the night sky, I was strewn across my bed last night. My eyes hastily decided that there was nothing worthwhile to see. Tiredness preceded insomnia, which was unusual, but certainly welcome. I was thinking about my personal understanding of God and how it seems so meaningless to me. I don't want to understand God, I want to know God. But that's foolishness because understanding and knowing are one and the same, at least, according to a dictionary.

Perhaps I don't truly know God? What sight do I have to perceive divine intervention? What if "divine intervention" is built by the hands of my own subjectivity? And then somebody will tell me to look at the scriptures. Well, again, what if the scriptures were built by the hands of others subjectivity?

There is no knowing. And I don't really care to know. But I also don't care to not know. I don't care about either. It's faith and I know it's not dead because it's practiced in the world. Even though I can see that faith is alive in the world, it doesn't necessarily mean that I see that faith alive inside of me. And that's what hurts, seeing what is absent inside when you look outside.

What care does God have toward the times I talk to him? My confessions, worries, praises, what could they possibly do for God? They can't improve him, for God is absolute. They are of no help to him, which I can understand, but they don't help me either. They don't improve me, based on the judgment I have of myself. I don't usually find joy in talking to God. I usually do it out of a fear of what God could do to me, for God can do anything that doesn't contradict his will.

Notwithstanding the disorder, I still use prayer as a channel to find peace. I suppose there is some amount of belief in me that God is peace, even though it is a modest amount. I want to find myself in the supernatural someday. A small marketplace with vendors and a cobblestone pavement underneath. And the vendors won't be selling withering fruit, but the fruits of the spirit.

But I'm not there and the world is hiding my soul from me. Oh, how weary you have become, once world of faith!

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Stumbling Eyes

I wasn't born with eyes that look toward myself, and still I look toward myself so often. Perhaps my existence would be more Godly if I was unable to see my reflection, or see myself in any way at all. What is the purpose of self-consciousness? They created mirrors and we found rivers to stare into. And when we become bored of staring into the rivers, we'll travel across them and end up right where we began. There is only one earth. Towns, cities, countrysides, villages, states, and countries are just man-made separations. There is no objective separation! And spaceflight? Spaceflight only forces humans to become robots - metal for flesh and helmet for head.

"And if your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into the fire of hell."

How many eyes must I rid myself of? And if my eyes are causing me to stumble, how will I have the clarity to see that I must rid myself of them?

The phrase "kiss it goodbye" is ignorant. Any person who has experienced pain through a "goodbye" should know that. Those who have experienced pain through such a "goodbye" did not receive a kiss at the conclusion. What did they receive? They received nothing from the other, for the one in pain provided for themselves, likely provisions of banality. A kiss would have been so very fortunate. There was no comprehensible conclusion - in three words, it was abrupt.

Internal ideas remain at the minor stage until they become appropriate external responses, that is, if it is possible for appropriate external responses to follow. If it is not possible for appropriate external responses to follow, than those internal ideas are eternal, without a beginning or an end (?)

Thursday, 14 August 2014

Least Aware

Perhaps the word comes to mind more often than it should, but vanity is appealing because it is visceral. It's so visceral that I can't even touch it with the tongue that I speak with, or the hands that I type with, or the feet that I walk with. I suspect that vanity is buried beneath everything we know to be evil but believe to be good. Our belief has buried vanity. It's not that we've even buried the evil of vanity, we've just buried the truth of our actions. But we don't see the truth because we believe that the truth doesn't want us to believe what we ought to. With the loss of truth comes the loss of ... I don't know how to talk about the truth.

Isn't it funny how we're all so black and white? We're comics, or at least, we try to be comics. That's what makes a good man in the 21st century, humor and cheer. An abode of delight and distraction. It's not often that I think about laughter. It's never made sense to me nor has it not made sense to me. Why should I feel pressure to be funny? The closest thing to laughter is either heavy breathing or asphyxia. Is laughter an in-situation veneer for future mourning?

It's interesting how we mature so that we can reach such "beloved destinations," yet when we make it to these places we become children again. I'm not sure if I'm simply jealous of the romantics or if I'm just unimpressed? Observantly speaking, when people engage in romantic moments they become so very juvenile; juvenile in a way that they cannot be when they are on their own. The regress, the oddity, the naivety ... maybe if I keep writing I'll never worry about romantic relationships again? Real romance is even worse than Harlequin. And why do outsiders feel so inclined as to love the lovers? Lovers don't need love like the healthy don't need doctors, and like the anxious don't need fear, and like the depressed don't need gloom, and like the snakes don't need scales, and like the birds don't need feathers, and like the poor don't need less. 

It's frightening when you see the purpose of your existence. Being without purpose might be unsatisfying, but seeing your purpose is overwhelming. When you can only think of one thing that seems meaningful, one thing that will bring you joy, and it turns out that it's something that you don't even really want.

It seems so foolish to me that tolerance is thought of as being "progressive." From my understanding, tolerance is used to try and escape the scenarios of being offended or offending others, yet it's this constant feeding of downright offense. We become trolls with tangled hair and grubby hands, as we feed both ourselves and others with the ugliness that we call "tolerance."

Do humans crave tragedy? Do humans crave that which is epic? Do humans crave terror? Do humans crave horror? It's very honorable that we sit in front of TVs and watch people being killed with machine guns. It's very honorable that we enjoy ideations of pain, or worse yet, actual pain. It's very honorable that we laugh at jokes that God probably finds abominable. "Oh, but those television shows and movies, they're just fictional. It's all in good fun." Is fiction more important than ethics?

And here I am, a bourgeois character sitting behind a keyboard, likely writing about things that I don't have enough knowledge or piety to write about. But, at the very least, I am aware of that.

Margaret Atwood, you were right.