I've enjoyed getting lost; I've enjoyed discovering whatever came of the journey. I've experienced losing what I thought I'd found – again and again. Getting lost while not knowing what I was looking for, with only the comfort of what I am, has been a privilege. Reveling in heartbreaks and letdowns, the flawed perfection theory and my wacko bona fides have always been an undeserved comfort to me. Never really suffering, never banged up abroad, awash in tears and proud of it I stumbled along in some mysterious grace. Is it the height of arrogance to know death can not humiliate me? Understanding life as a struggle for humility and knowledge as something that doesn't belong to me is not heroic. The banal beauty of it all can almost be painful it's so good.
That entropic mystery, the illusion of time is nothing as the Buddhists say. I am aware of my strange predetermined, WEIRD background that predetermines nothing in a deterministic universe. I sense the magic of consciousness I'm somehow conscious of that seems to give me agency. I intuitively feel nothing would simulate me. I know I could get bored with my self-illusion – someday. I experience the pure sense of joy that comes more often than not as an undeserved gift. Mystery, it is all a mystery. Do we all live utterly selfish lives in one way or another where we make a few people happy and disappoint the rest whose opinions and sensibilities matter only as threads in the fabric of illusion? Within the noise, if we can not find stillness, silence, and solitude, we will never truly exist. We must not merely find these qualities; we must be them. Only then can we begin to understand genuinely ecstatic connections.
Feeling connected and in love with a few marvelous people, thankfulness flows like a river of life. That's the thing.