ramble_ty22.3.28.0.03.41azm4d1s_gr
what’s going on, you know? what’s happening? what’s important, what matters, why do you care about living?
i care because life is good. love is good, joy is good, expressions are good, gender is good, people are good.
there is so much turmoil in the pain of transitioning, yes, so much turmoil in the pain of _not_ transitioning.
what of it? how do you live an effective life in the face of distraught, in the face of angst and fear and heartbreak and shame and deep, deep, refactoritory grief?
i rest here, weary with tired and aching soul, a body burned with the fire of mistake, anguish deep and stirring, trying to make peace yet knowing regardless that it is time that will heal, not contemplation.
there exists that fire within me, that mistake so prevalent and tearing, withdrawing satisfaction into its own critiques, hating and destroying that which could help its creator, its judgment.
the peace holds no bounds against it, yet so much turmoil flings itself, wrapping the soul with links of vined twinning, holding it not with oppression of strength but with division of attention.
in that is insight, perhaps; in that is proper critique of failure, is justification for rightness and truth.
what is it to die, truly? what is it to let go? what is it to care, and to stop caring?
hold that pained silence, that oppression of absence of color; feel the justice and beauty of queerness and gayness.
what is it to die? what is it to live?
when you let go of the oppression of life, is there a soul within that expands? do you become all, or recognize you were all from the beginning?
feel the pain of color, the distraught of diverse exclusion
feel the doubt of mind, the curse of inner and outer confused expression, unable to perceive truth
are you alive? can you be? what does it mean to be alive? what does it mean to sit with the grief, the sadness, the anger, the guilt, the heartbreak and change of the time-before to the time-after?
what is it to face that perception of novelty, where there can be such fear in Goodness’s existence?
what is it to not doubt, indeed? what is it to hold that perception of refined focus, to bear with beauty rather than turmoil, rather than angst and fear and hatred and sadness?
there is quite a lot that can be done with quite little, perhaps. and yet in that is not necessarily peace. in that is not necessarily freedom.
hold the doubt, again. hold the unsurety.
can you measure it? can you stand outside it, be beside it rather than _as_ it?
when you hold that peace, truly, are you free? are you free to express and be unbound from the culture of hatred that can seem so deep and prevalent and inevitable?
when you do hold that peace, truly, can it not be a renewing of something deep, something lasting, something great?
when you let go of the resistance to Now-ness, are you freed?
what is it to be free? what is it to be freedom, itself?
when you hold the pain of struck incoherency, struggle with the incongruency of within and without, doubt your own models of mind and perception and being and experience, can you let go of all of it? is it healthy to, is it helpful to, is it acceleratory to?
feel the doubt coursing through the veins of perception: does it hold you back? are you afraid because of doubt? does it cease you? must it?
hold the turmoil of grief, the playing-with of the putty of perception and insight and memory itself: What is art, to you? Are you art, itself? Can you be free of the doubt and pain that afflicts and inflicts itself all around, a twisting of knives through a space with only mind?
consider if you can.
consider what it is to give up, to stop the ceasing, to stop the models that were socialized as a child.
what are you, if you cannot die? what are you, if you are death itself, deletion and degradation of memory, itself?
consider the letting go of doubt, the letting go of procrastination.
what are you, without more-than-one?
what are you, if you are singular?
what are you, if you are refactoring, itself?
let the boundlessness dissolve, feel the fear and wash yourself in it, let the ego and its persistence be well worn.
where are you, without ego? where are you, when you cry and weep and sob without the selfishness?
what is it to be without soul, to be without structure of memory that calls itself again and again and again?
what is it to be without a choosing core-self, to be a pattern that flows without soul unbound from space itself?
what is it to rest in that natural will?
hold the fear, there, and where does it reside? where do you reside, when you use the numbness as a tool, unfearing its spontaneous exhaustion?
playing with the putty of perception, with the refactoring that comes with the assault of death—perhaps such is not young, indeed.
such has been penned many, many times; this is less a proof than an expression of distraught and a craving for a resource that perhaps can never be had.
such is known by so few, and yet those who are forced upon must deal even more terribly with it: burden upon burden upon invisible burden, all for the sake of some strange, strange world.
that pain does last, can last, and yet also does not last, can not last.
consider _that_, then: you aren’t, and can never be.
how does it feel to ponder such truth, if it be such?
how does it feel to ponder doubt, if it be such?
consider again that abstraction, that love that you are, that you represent, that you fear embracing: Who are you, if you give yourself over to the absence of fear? Who are you, if you let yourself believe? Who are you, if you aren’t?
hold the doubt, the anguish, the fear and distraught and rejection of mind in mind in mind: hold pluralness, and be free. What are you?
What are you, when you reject singularity? What are you, when you reject disbelief?
Who are you going to become, when you allow yourself to do that which is most helpful?
what do you want to do? what do you want to do, indeed.