Know Thyself, page 1

Thoughts that frighten us while we're in Hell enlighten us when we return to Heaven.

Where have I been?

How do I get to the places I go? There's never a fork in the road that I remember contemplating; even looking back I can't recall having made any choices.

Most important - how do I get back each time? Will I always? Was it worth it? Did I learn what I had to learn? Am I older? Have I grown? Did time pass? Does it pass at all or do I move forward? Am I like a patron of the Akashic museum, apart from, yet engrossed in, the study of the mural of my own life?

I think of the map that is made to full scale - it is the size of that which it intends to map and drawn to the finest detail; there is no longer a difference between the place and the map of the place. They are the same. Were they ever separate?

* * * * *

More or less, it went like this: I woke up - from a dream? from sleep? I came into being today at 2:53pm and it was the First Day. God created the Heavens and the Earth; the night and the day; the water and the land. He sighed; I was born from the exhale. He created Life. He created Man. He created me and He created not-me and put it all together and called it This.

Trying to write with a migraine lurking in the background isn't easy. My neck and back and shoulders ache from the effort of keeping it away. I rock back and forth to keep it at bay. I stare at the keyboard as I type because the screen is too bright.

Yet, there is great clarity; there is the utmost focus, here, beside the migraine. The migraine is the absolute in lack of focus and concentration - the destruction of them, in fact � but it is held at bay by the most extreme force of will I can muster. Concentration for the purpose of maintaining concentration; focusing on staying focused. The resulting conflict creates energy. It also creates a second self - a consciousness aware of its consciousness. One that is not struggling, but rather, is created from the struggle.

I am not the headache. I try to become the keyboard - my fingers typing at the keyboard - only dimly aware of a headache somewhere in the distance. Instead of an entity, sitting at a computer, punching letters on a keyboard who may become momentarily aware of a car horn sounding outside, I am through force of will and for sanity's sake something new. I am a black keyboard, set atop a wooden desk, being played upon by two hands that momentarily becomes aware of an afflicted head. That head is me only so far as the car horn is me under normal conditions.

This whole drama is complicated by a third presence, which is a voice - a chain of connected thoughts, attempting to describe the situation; a voice trying to explain this transient moment of reality as perceived by one individual consciousness sensing what it can from a single chair set up in a specific room within a livingunit of an apartment building built on a certain street of a particular block of a unique neighborhood which exists as but a section of an entire city one divided area of a larger more complex metropolitan area located within the borders of a certain county inside of a much larger state which is simply a fraction of the whole country which in turn is just a part of the larger continent which together with other continents and even larger areas of non-continent form an entire planet just one of several planets some of which dwarf it by comparison all circling a central star with the whole system making up one single massive star system one of millions and millions of starsystems all grouped together and orbiting a common central point and which when taken together as another whole are referred to as a galaxy that is moving ever further away from every other likewise composed galaxy of which there is no limit as far as number of galaxies and yet all of these galaxies for which all fails as a term since there will always be more just as soon as you think you have labeled them all and then one more after that and one more after that but always whenever you find a new one the next one the following one will always be there right before the one after it and on and on and on and on all of it happening right now right here right on and on for ever and ever in this marvelous universe of one single solitary thing the only thing which is no thing at all but simply is

* * * * *

It's Friday Night in Hollywood and as I walk down the boulevard, caffeine coursing through my veins, I begin to enjoy myself. Problems drift away as quickly as strangers passing the opposite way. We never come face to face; eye contact is restricted to those in love. We, sad, lonely warriors, wander the earth, protecting the masses from danger. We are samurai. Or perhaps angels.

Ah, but delusion is the forest we are exploring; spontaneity is the stream we watch flowing by; despair is the stone upon which we sit. We call it contentment. We call it peace. The peak of the Enlightened Mountain calls to us through the treetops and upon its slopes can be found Strength and Courage. This is where I must go.

This shaded glade is but a beginning point and the illusion is cast from here: Everything is as it should be. But it's not - nowhere close, in fact. I know this. The trees know this. Nearby, a squirrel flees a frightening premonition.

I begin walking; the summit of the Mountain is my goal. I spend all afternoon climbing. Several times, I lose my footing; my knees are soon scraped and bleeding. I stop often, leaning my back against trees or seated on the ground, and sip from my Desire to Press On. As I move further up the Mountain, the trees become fewer and the sun beats down upon my head and shoulders. I wipe the sweat away from my eyes; I remove my shirt and wrap it around my head to protect my neck and ears from sunburn. I am getting tired.

Finally, I can take no more. Neither I, nor the sun, seem to move at all; I begin to doubt that I will reach my goal and the sun seems intent on burning me right out of existence. At last, I collapse, and with my lips pressed to the earth, I kiss the world goodbye. My eyes close and the light disappears.

Did this creature awaken me? I lift my head and rub my eyes, gathering my sight. I spit dirt from my mouth. Seeing the beauty of the being before me, I am ashamed. "Don't be", it says to me; it knows my thoughts! I try to speak; my words are inadequate and forced: "You are- ".

A most Godlike smile, then, "I am You. Yes."

"I was going to say, 'Beautiful'".

* * * * *

My sad, former self is sitting alone in the living room, sullenly flipping channels on the television - it is his vain attempt at finding reasons to be. I am, for the moment, able to see the futility in frustration. He, assuming frustration to be external, searches outside himself for relief. Perhaps I should go to him, take him in my arms, and urge him to weep on my shoulder. Tears are waterfalls along the river of courage; I long to take my companion onboard a vessel and pass through these mists of passion I have discovered. I point heavenward; "There are birds in the sky, again," I say. He merely shrugs.

O, how I long to reconcile these two parts of myself. I am like my ancient ancestors, ignorant of scientific truth, struggling to understand the never-ending battle between sun and moon; night and day; dreamsleep and the waking life.

If I were clever, I would simply destroy my handicapped twin - rid myself of him, once and forever. Alas, he is my brother and I cannot; Cain washed the blood of Abel from his hands but the memory of the act marked him, always. In the end, all we have is forgiveness for our sins against each other. In the end, there is only love.

In the fields where the flowers sway, I linger. I know it's time to go; I am resigned but looking forward to my fate. The final, eternal embrace with my Father.

* * * * *

Where have I been?

When one finally emerges from the dark, it's always amazing how bright the light is. But the light is a constant- an ideal that never changes form. Its brilliance is eternal and unwavering.

It is our eyes that change - our hearts and our minds. We are the clouds and the nights and the overcast days. We are the rain that washes out our dinner parties. We are the hands of destiny, forever directing ourselves down our single chosen path.

Whether we ever come to know it, or not.

sm-03