Sometimes i am so lonely, not the shade of loneliness that makes one want to cry, whimper. It is different. A deeper, more subtle, distant uneasy feeling. When one knows what one believes one thinks one knows, it is there, a gnawing, always in the background, on the edge of life, near the horizons of death itself. When you have arrived to the terrain of the absurd, the meaninglessness of life, it is somewhere around there that this vague spirit resides. At the point where you know that what ever you tend to believe you know, is simply relative, changing, never absolute and never perfect; never really true, nothing more than an example, a reflection of reality; it is there that this loneliness tends to surround you; like an uneasy night that preys on you after a glorious day.
I mean to say, when you really grasp this reality, you are alone, totally alone, no one knows you, you know no one and you can not know yourself, there is no self to know, nothing to hold onto, nothing but new uncertain realities floating thru your being like a single leaf dancing across a vacant lot alone, separate, you come and you go and that is it. It is there that this spirit of nothingness is everything.
Possibly a sadness for all that you obtain is for not, not the way you wanted things to be. This feeling is not one to ponder on for days, or even hours. It can tear you apart if you are not careful, depress you, crush you, make you ignore the beauty that encircles you. Though it does appear to be important, almost necessary to always know it is there, keep it close, for it is where you must go, but not to self-praise it endlessly, but to honour it with the light air of passing thru, a form of observing without question, without the radiation of thought destroying its nature. It is called by many names. I call it the ‘pure wind’. Many are depressed, scared of this energy and in vain attempt desperately to escape this clear mist, most all of the time through-out their lives, they shield themselves from the beauty of its silence.
It is not your enemy. It is your friend in the end. It is behind the beauty of the sea, the scent of wild flowers blowing across the plateaus of experience, it is the root whereas much thought attempts to escape, avoid, understand. It is the way, it is within the gates of eden, out in the magic garden, deep space, the way of the heart.
One can camouflage it with imaginary forms of paradise, visuals of heavens and hells, the sounds of silences; one can deny it, hide it away in misery of worthless architecture of the mind, but it is your friend in the end, embrace it, this void, this mystery, and let it kiss your heart, be your soul.
This is the way to die.
Images and writing by patrick wey