It is that time again, to give the master a visit.
Drained by the drag of this swamp, starving for the holy company
I must return once again to that blessed deathbed, so that I may sneak through the sliding door, and the clashing rocks, and re-emerge in the field where I am no more.
Yes, that’s what I long for the most these days, a sip of eternity, where the hands of time drop and I become an innocent child again.
I’ve been in the state of emergency long before this pandemic. I’ve been wearing masks and social distancing and putting up walls since the Berlin Wall fell.
I’m a fortress, a fortress protecting mere air, protecting a mere idea, a big fat idea, a figment of imagination called “me.”
I’m weary of ideas, the cheap fridge magnets of a frightened ego. I entertain so many of them and live by none of them.
I’m really not even a thing, as illusive as the fabric of a thought. I find things by concealing my no-thing nature.
And guess what is the source of my agony! It’s that which is most repeated in this passage, the “I.” This big, capital “I.” It is and feels exactly as it looks: tall and divisive like a wall, straight as a dam resisting all that flows.
The “I” is nature’s piercing. It’s attractive and enhancing, but it’s always a cause for concern, for infection, or unholy things of this nature.
It is that time again, to march toward that which calls, to slide into that hidden dimension.
It is that time again, to break free of all conceptions and return to that beloved dimensionless point in which everywhen and everywhere is concentrated.
It is that time again, to give the master a second visit.