When I first entered this Way, I relied on mySelf very readily. It was natural. It FELT natural, at any rate. It felt so real I fell into operating in a very-Real-manner almost at once. It was only after a dream-death that I came to the realization that, despite the "reality", despite the here-and-NOW-ness of it all…that this Way was just the many corridors of this trance. Despite the protests (of which there were plenty), I returned constantly. I dreamed about shattering the wall I'd inevitably find at the end of every path, though honestly, who is to say whether it is a wall or not (No wall. Not-wall. The Great Wall of Not)…after all, I can only touch it, sealed there in the dark, feel my way down its oddly textured surface. I grope desperately at every grain and graft (of which there are plenty) like someone newly blind. Like my eyes were taken forcibly and I'm far from adapting. It radiates a something….a drive, or maybe a hunger. I often make guess and estimations of its nature by listening to what it hungers for, drives toward….these guesses ultimately feel superficial and I think it knows this. I know it, at any rate.
Is this thing Me? Of Me? Merely INSIDE Me? Is this the dark passenger Burroughs mentions? It is stealthy, strong, and smart, but utterly beyond me apparently. It occasionally seems to be on my side though, which raises its own set of questions.
"One of our most ancient proverbs justifies the war prisoner: 'the captive will cry out, the dead man never.' " -Aleksander Solzhenitsyn 'The Gulag Archipelago'
nothing is illuminated - back to black, the deck is stacked
against the wise
who rise to face clashing tongues wagging and
bragging for scraps on a dirty wooden floor notched from
teeth dropping from smashed faces bloody from
and crying like a dying dog
it sits, baffled at an end it couldn't see coming
because more than two eyes are required to
see into coiled cold snakes eyes
from birthrights to death rituals
we sullenly scrape the surface and find infinite surface
ultimate regression is stagnation
nothing is worth remembering