I’m too ADD to be atheist. The God question does not even matter. It’s banal. I choose to live my life as it runs its own course.
I hate how tacky people can be. Tacky can also be devoid of character and adherence to the superficial qualities of human nature. I’d rather be a person than a parrot. Why aren’t rituals done anymore? It would be less-daunting and dull if we tried to read between the lines and make the moment the most sacred part of life vs. anything that can’t be known or explained.
It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.
“
| — | Rainer Maria Rilke (via beautifulurself) |
William Blake
“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”
— What you can’t handle leads to self-knowledge.
- Pain
~ Severe Trauma
~ Episodes of melancholy
- Entheogens
~ Initiatory trips
(feeling like you’re gonna die)
- Human relationships
~ Family disconnections
~ Social anxiety
- Potential degradation
- Getting Lost
Not all who wander are lost…
~ Travelling
~ Fantasy
~ Delusion
- Illumination
~ Art
~ Music
~ Poetry
Alive in the Stream of Lies
Life is its own form of poetic license, means also that life happens at its own accord. There is no point in thinking about what is going to happen tomorrow. Otherwise it will be totally the same. No more searching for anything, forgetting about Time, Space or what space produces: noise. Serendipity, sentiments, poetry, existence: the eightfold departure to the bane of machinery.
Currently filling out Herlihy Boy applications left and right. It has been a priority — so much that I know what it tastes like in my mouth, as I wake up. It’s more distinct than halitosis
Applied Solitude
My friends become silhouettes when I need to focus. My attention is focused on the fact that I am without job, house or foundation. Running through Portland — rather than indulging, this isn’t the case. Many circumstances have brought me to this situation, but everything is alright. If anything, isolation in any form builds a broad spectrum report on the way of things. Mentioning Thoreau, in Walden Pond, and his short aphorism that the house is not the lodge of a human soul, but only a product of what a human can create. My home is not even in my work, writings or presence, as it may emanate in a positive or negative way. In reality, I was pushed, and no, I was not brought to any lesson that a person, situation [of many] or spontaneous realization, but this is what has come of me… And I am nothing more than a human being who is here in the moment, and do what I must in order to live.
