Sunday, May 16, 2010

On a gray December day

I shouldn't be surprised at the silence or the lack of light, as both of these things are conditions I caused to come into being by choices in the past. If I were to wake up in one moment only, say at three o'clock this afternoon in the already-waning sunlight, and come to consciousness in an instant, existing only for that one moment, I might be disoriented within the silence of my life as I would naturally assume it was a temporary condition. Why was it so? Where was everyone? Where was this "life" that supposedly pulsed and ran, in an endless cycle, only a few yards from my windows? Where were the phone calls, the sounds of the television, the voices of friends, the sounds of my neighbors? Absent, as if I was the only one left on the Earth. Of course there is the neverending sound of cars passing in the day or night, but that is absolutely atmospheric now, like the rushing of the wind or the falling of rain. If I want to, just to cause myself more pain, I can reach out my mind towards those passing cars and assume they are real, that they are filled with life and individuals making choices, that they are all - each a single cell with its own agenda and motives, its own worldview, its own reason for living, its own desire - traveling towards happiness or away from fear, even though I know this is an illusion. I can stretch out my mind two hundred yards from my window and have it form a permeable wall across the highway, each car passing through it is examined, the minds of its occupants touched, if only for an instant. And so I have hundreds of stories, each second giving me a half dozen more as people travel to the north or south, away from something or towards something else...and even though I can reach out my mind towards them I can not feel every single instant that flutters within their lives, their minds, their feelings and motivations. They cross my path only for a fraction of a second, and in that time I intuitively feel a complex chemistry of sensations that my consciousness is too blind to trace through all of its meandering variety, all of its moments and reflections. I don't trust my own intuition, you see, at a basic biological level. It only gives me images and fantasies, and through action I can make some of those images come to be, they will enter reality, although they are never as I intended or saw them as being...my images and dreams were sisters to their reality, but their entrance into my life is too complex, too dark, too rich for my mind to grasp in each second of time. There are too many symbols, too many sensations, too many paths to go down. Yet my intuition remains my guiding light in life (even though I can not give my heart to it completely)...I suppose because it offers hope so easily. It is always speaking of potentials and possibilities, of mysteries and hidden motives, of things blossoming unseen. It lets me feel the sympathies between people or things that go unnoticed or denied by the conscious mind - which seeks to clarify every causal relationship by the rules of reason. I would rather daydream and listen to the whisperings of intuition than conquer reality through reason and action...perhaps because I fear the ability the reason and conscious mind have to shallowly determine existence and reduce my experiences to the mechanisms of desire. There is something so hopeless and disappointing in the process of dreams becoming reality. I feel, at all times, that the dreams struggle and reach towards the light of reality without ceasing, they ferment and swarm like serpents in the unconscious, but I have never been convinced that their eventual entry (by manipulating desire, and other emotions) into reality is a constant process of life or renewal. How do we know our dreams do not enter reality in order to die? How do we know they don't enter life in order to disappoint us further and lead to self-condemnation?

So I can wonder, then, how many dead dreams lie scattered throughout my life - both here in reality, the life of one day blending into another (which is just an illusion, there is only a single day that lasts forever), and in my entire history, my past, which includes all of my past thoughts, reflections, attractions, all of the meaning that was created in my world in the impact between my experiences and my mind. I wonder how many dead dreams lie around my body as I sleep, or on my body as I walk through the world. I know I feel them, because sometimes I find it hard to breathe under their weight. Is it too difficult to believe that memories and dreams do not leave their corpses behind - either when they sink to a lower level of consciousness, or leave and enter reality? Matter can neither be created or destroyed, and I believe dreams only assume different shapes, they can "transcend" or decay, perhaps into different dreams, different desires, but I don't believe they ever disappear. I know this from my own experience as my dreams seem to surface under the same shapes over and over again - even after they have left and entered reality. It's as if the dreammaker, whoever or whatever it is, has only a limited number of molds from which to form its creations. Of course these conceptions are complex enough to fool our inner eye most of the time, we take their rapidly altering shapes for new appearances, new forms of internal life, but in essence (in their internal lives) they are the same. Perhaps my dreams have been the same since I was born - I was born with them already inside of me, or at least the rough shapes of their creation already half-finished, which immediately struck their adamantine shapes the first time I opened my eyes. I wonder if the silence around me is caused by the suffocating presence of all of these dreams...

I have already said I prefer the intuitive life, so I shouldn't be be surprised at this silence, at the lack of light. It is my natural condition, I assume, or at least it has been my condition for so long that it seems natural. Waking up, as I mentioned above, in each second to consciousness, constantly coming to being inside my own life, I naturally form the habit of assuming the conditions I find myself to be inside to be those that I prefer, or those that I chose. I live my life according to the choices of the second before, the moment just past, the yesterday, the life that has been lived to this point. The past determines the present, although the present is just an illusion of consciousness and its substance as a concept can not be maintained or defined in any qualitative way. What does the present feel like? Nothing. Its essence is always changing, it is nothing and everything, it is potential and the denial of possibility, it is a choice and a denial of an infinite number of other choices...this is tantamount to saying that the present, and consciousness (immediacy and the focus of the will), are just an endless refusal, an endless commitment to death. It is a blessing, then, that in this universe no death is final, and all forms of matter (even dreams and choices) are dissected, reduced to their component parts, and reborn. I usually react to this unending process with nausea and vertigo, fearing eternity as an external oppression (held to existence and life against my will, forced to be conscious, chained to this world, this universe), but in the intuitive life I can reach moments of relative peace where I regard life as a Watcher to be a lesser evil. There are far worse things in this world. Perhaps I did choose this silence...

U. Amtey
07 December 2004
14:38 CST