Oppressive Inspiration

Freedom in the prism

In recent weeks I have become even more acutely aware of the piled incoherence of my own thought process. Luckily there are other humans around to listen because somehow pulling together sentences in speech forces coherence.

Though I search for "solution" in everything, I often find more problems. The closer I get to the center of everything, the more I realize it is simply the other side of the perimeter. Insides would not exist without an exterior, and thus the inverse is true. As humans study the beyond, they learn more about themselves. With that perception it's not altogether surprising that as I study more about my core, I become more lost in the expansiveness of the universe. Every rapture-like realization is relieving for a moment, just to unlock another section of wonder to explore.

Comically my style of writing is so chaotic that ideas build themselves into a complex framework of interconnectedness where thoughts are being created simultaneously as my hands type. It's only comical to me really, as I sense others may be so confused that they feel I'm a lunatic, or they themselves are stupid. It's likely neither, and I simply haven't gathered the skill necessary to spread the complexity in a digestible manner. Before today I had thought it was impossible to honor my complexity in this way, but it may be that evaluative writing is the precise medium to be used for the dissection. I could move these paragraphs or sentences in nearly any order and my mind would understand. It loves the puzzle and craves the opportunity to reshuffle it so it could connect the significance. The real comedy is that I’ve chosen a linear art form when my conception is far from straight forward. What I hope you are here to witness is a gift given through me to see how ideas can be woven in a cosmic way, an orbital way—cyclical, but ordered.

So I ask myself, which order is necessary for your perception? Not for me to change what I write, for this is simply an opportunity for you to explore how I perceive the world. I would like to see yours however, as an attempt to see things differently too. This is our shared difficulty in developing: complexity overwhelms as tiny simple truths spread joy. Developing connectivity is a complex endeavor towards the simplest result. It may be conceptually true that we are fundamentally united, but that doesn’t stop us from seeing things different, as we are all given a different set of abilities and circumstances.

The seeker is on a mission to interweave the diverse experience of, and with, each other to feel—even for just a moment—that we aren't alone in the struggle to be ourselves.

The gifts of the cursed

I don't have many talents in this world, and though this felt like one of them, it seemed it wasn't coming out quite right; at least… for everybody else. The creative process is oppressive that way. It is so dense with creation that comprehension is often lost. A surface level perspective nagged that my time here is limited, the investment in unpacking babbles from indeterminate origins seemed like an immense undertaking.

Silly human, creation is for gods

Evaluating art, especially as the creator of it, may be a futile pursuit. For me to make any of this legible I had to unpack it, taking hours of extra time I could have spent without my thoughts, enjoying bird chirps and drifting clouds. That's what makes this so comical, as I now return to finish a "book" that I wrote in a more complex and dense state of consciousness; something I thought was pure and beautiful because of the timeless experience I embodied while I wrote it. Now returning, it seems grotesque and unintelligible, nearly impossible to unpack into something worth an attempt to read. It will take far longer than an afternoon to relieve the burden in those pages. So I remind myself of lessons past that I must honor now by finishing what I started. In honoring them, they return in kind, reminding me that following through is not about the resulting creation, but the investment in ourselves as a person that is committed to honor inspiration.

All creation is an act of faith

Most of my pursuits feel futile, especially those that are maintenance based or necessary for survival. No matter what I do, the end is death.

I am never at any destination, and in that I know that I never will be. It can be crushing or inspiring to realize that tomorrow is another day when you have to put on your pants and go to work towards uncertain returns. To crumble or overcome—the choice is yours. Challenge is a tool and only your hands can decide how to use it.

You are all in, this is gonna kill you. Why not go all in on your potential?

The beginning of anything is inspiration, and though we often fail to follow through, reminders of that opportunity are enough for me to be hopeful there are more to come.

Awareness begins, faith continues, commitment through action disciplines

Ends… we haven’t seen those yet

Spoiled innocence

Just as a spoiled child scoffs at receiving socks for Christmas, privilege can spoil a talent that the less fortunate beg for. True character is built upon wearing holes in those socks as if they were the most critical part of taking your next step.

I've often pondered why talent is so revered in this world. I thought we were a population of hard workers that honored result driven pursuit. Why then, are all those gifted with effortless production rewarded so much more highly? It may be that there is a more fundamental trait that we are rewarding in these "lucky" individuals—something that all of us have access to.

In a NASA inspired study, 98% of 5 year olds were deemed “genius.” By 15 years old, only 12% retained that level of creativity.

So much for growing up

While many search for the secret to inspiration, there are some who seem consumed—unable to stop, to eat, to think, to sleep, to breathe—without expelling this thing which holds their attention. And the lay look upon as if she is afflicted, lost to disease or torturous dreams. In that prison, art is the peace that the rest think they'll someday find. As the mediocre claim contentment, advertising a freed exterior, the inspired continue deeper—spellbound.

The artist creates delicately, always risking that some very human response will detract from the most important realization: each creation is the best they've created. Impoverished creators feel they need both: a means for physical function and abstract actualization. For some the very real threat of death knocks. Even if death is far, the artist, armed with copious imaginative freedom conjures rustles in the night, yelps from hungry phantoms encircling the next decision. Battling from both sides, we often fail to notice the gratitude available from the activity itself.

When worldliness comes knocking, resolve is tested

Regardless of subjective reactivity, each new creation is built upon the past investment. The current expression often does not appear as a favorite, and the creator is deceived that it may be their worst, only then to be surprised by the masses falling in love. It is a great conundrum:

Who am I making this for?

Artists act as a channel of brilliance, a prism exposing the fundamental vibrancy of everyday rays of sunshine—that which we take for granted—refracted into basic colors. They live in little glass prisons, indebted to existence as principle dissectors. Understandably, often blinded by the intensity, something so abstracted is produced that most realist eyes cannot access. Not every storm produces a rainbow. Sometimes it is barely consumable, as the ideas have yet to coalesce with experience. Often it has simply come too early, and the world isn't quite ready. This is the nature of visionaries, they can see beyond an observer's paradigms into a possibility for something better. It is an incalculable risk, as only time and reaction will pass judgement on the artist. In failure, cast out as heretic; in success, welcomed as genius. Sometimes only after death is one recognized for their ability. The afflicted lives a lifetime in uncertainty, producing not for recognition, but for the sake of freeing themselves through the activity. If we could save someone from that torture we would, but often the torture is the necessary catalyst for creation.

Post-awareness suffering may be optional, but the depth of despair that brought such awareness appears necessary

Understanding is distant from the other side

In ignorance art can be perceived as “unnecessary” or “childish.” Playing the materialist utilitarian, immaturity betrays a befuddled blabber, unknowing that an artist is granted a deeper responsibility to capture the unexplained in explainable ways. Gifted with antennae for creation they are cursed to never know this world in comprehensive certainty. The radar is pointed to discover aliens, while the blips stay silent on the surface. On this plane they feel aimless, fumbling with symbols and shapes and colors as if they were children playing with toy blocks—trapped in an adult’s world—unvalidated in their deceptively functional foolishness.

Once validated, the difficulty of every channel is to not succumb to grandiosity when the world notices what that individual is truly capable of. It’s no wonder why creative genius is so lauded, it is a reminder of our boundlessness. Observers often forget that the very thing they admire is simply a reflection of possibility for themselves.

What is art if not the deepest expression of faith that there was applicability in alignment with the beyond?

With every new failure I am re-aligned, set on a path to a life I didn’t know was better than my imagination. We all have our role in this reality. Likely, we are not best as captains of the ship and rather are better off rowing the boat. Building confidence as the propulsion we are deceived that holding the paddle means we’re in control of the whole ship. We are but a tiny integral part of the whole.

It’s wonderful to be part of, I should remember that

But… how far must we go to get closer?

Have we simply drifted from the closeness to a pure reality, that which we were so close in our youth, distanced by an increasingly unforgiving world? More importantly, where shall we go to return to that?

Awareness of worldly malevolence brings one dangerously close to concretizing deficiencies by reasoning that a dark and stormy nature is worth what it produces. The martyr rationalizes suffering as necessary to the production, slowly dismantling himself in the name of progress.

In an effort to battle—into the mouth of the beast, rebellious torches held high in blinded righteousness—we are consumed

A person, naturally limited, cannot look upon pure light without being at least partially blinded and thrust into a lonely stumble that has the potential to send them into an abyss which has no bottom. After the initial drop a person finds themselves weightless. Falling doesn’t feel like falling when there is no end. Having been blinded already the darkness appears the same as pure light. Even if they could see everything, they are not capable of understanding. They are better off cherishing the gifted senses, no matter how limited.

A seamless piece of creation, and the accompanying sense, provides a validation that cannot be found in limited beings. I do believe we are unlimited energies bounded by a universe, often trapped inside a body. Directing that energy may be choice itself, our only means of doing anything.

Uncertainty, my old friend

Life as a melodrama

Am I being overly melodramatic? Maybe. Or are we just convinced that boring insignificance is... fine? Yuk. The ability for a comfortable human to validate its own delusion is the most powerful force of oppression. Influence is won once the prisoner is convinced that their cell is lovely. This may be where our genius was lost, in the formation of previous failures, and the misguided souls who never transcended miserable comfort. As more lose their wonder, they must convince those around them that there is none to be had. If they fail to convince, every person becomes a reminder of their inadequacy.

The mind can further the oppression by capturing our attention in past mistake or wasted experience. When a person becomes consumed in their own drama, the story becomes life, sense deranges, and the true exuberance of existing is disfigured by mind-manufactured misery.

There is no waste to life, there is no mistake. Every failure is fortune in disguise—a sign that we have more to give—appearing as misgivings, greasy treasures waiting to be polished.

The paradox: the same vehicles which limit us contain the ability to overcome the limitation. Practices of the body and enlightenment of the mind release us. Sadly, those freed need not converse amongst themselves, and words to a prisoner are no means to escape. So we speak to plant seeds, not to harvest fruit.

A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.

I've always considered life a tragic comedy in precisely that way.

The tragedy:

Shall we turn our backs on those in hell for a slim chance we could enjoy our tiny slice of heaven?

Would it be heaven if some of us don’t make it?

Anyone having spent time remediating their own affliction knows that the most effective method for sustained release is helping others who experience the same difficulty. It is a well designed system to elevate everyone. Not only are the carriers of wisdom the most understanding, most equipped for connection, but are somehow mystically separated from the disease for that moment, something not even they can explain. It isn’t about explanation, these are messengers of example, a beacon of hope that someone like them is miraculously separated form the punishment that neither asked for. The example is not that this human is somehow exalted or possesses a super-power. They are a representation of actions taken to find release, revealing the true power of storytelling. What that example risks, is the chance that they are reminded of a story they believed for too long, one that kept them in the same state of affliction.

Why turn back when that means exploring the things which you have been intentionally distancing from?

The diseased will, given the chance, pull us into their pit of despair for a chance to re-validate their failure to overcome. Spend too much time at the barber shop and you are bound to get your hair cut. All disease, especially those of the mind, are infectious in the worst way: there is little need for convincing. Time invested and proximity to an intense manifestation are more powerful than any persuasion. The closer we become to the afflicted, the more likely it is that we fall into their dysfunctional vortex. Another difficult conundrum for all of humanity: if we are going to elevate our extended self, we must put ourselves in the most dangerous positions. But just as we can train our body to protect from infections, we can train the mind.

How much practice is necessary before we return to assist our fellows?

Much practice comes from the action itself. Few of us can pursue lives of monastic servitude in the mountains, far from the mass of difficulty. Much of our work is done amidst the difficulty of each other. In the complexity, we are often trapped in the how’s and when's, when we haven’t much considered the why. This is the power of order: fundamental roots are stronger than winds which snap weak branches. If rooted in truth, it becomes easier to see through incoherent mental specters.

The power to sway an individual lies in the ability of the practitioner to channel the freedom or expose the limitation. This is its own practice. Whomever is more assured in practice has the power of influence. Physical life is an investment, and contained in every individual is sovereign belief. What the individual does, is up to him and him alone. Retaining agency in the face of uncertainty is one of our greatest tests.

As must have been planned when consciousness sprouted, the limitations were gifted as such: the depth of despair is far more shallow than transcendent boundlessness. Which way you aim, is up to you. The slide down is incremental, while leaps upward are always available, no matter how far you have descended.

It is always… only up from here

The comedy:

Likely it is less a game of intentional evaluation and more-so a mixture of practiced awareness and willingness to allow unexplainable things to direct us. We know that grace befriends the wicked through kismet events, moving us in moments transcending thought. The evidence of a second chance is all those that have survived, left nervously chuckling at the past. When united, sharing boisterously in the pains they know all too well. Laugher bubbling from the depths of shared knowingness cuts through all disease.

The entire thing appears as a big conspiratorial joke. Once the insecure innards of a “successful” person are exposed, we realize how human they are, and how likely we could have done better given their circumstances. But we don’t know that for sure: all we have is our experiences, our failures, and the insecurities unique to those events.

Experience is required for true learning, while ideas act as merely pointers towards the openness to that opportunity. It has yet to be proven if wisdom can be transferred through anything other than mistake. Knowledge, and the transfer of information, is far from practical. It clearly is not equivalent to power, or even required, as morons now commonly rise to influential positions and play cops and robbers with our civilization. Knowledge may just be an overrated accelerant in the Information Age, distracting our brightest who should be pursuing a different quality entirely. Wisdom could be perceived as the combination of all that consolidates understanding: knowledge, experience, and judgement. More likely it is the connective tissue which holds lifetimes together.

Are we carrying wisdom to ourselves through time transcendent repetitious embodiments?

or

Are all of us mirrored guru-selves during this timeline?

An homage to uncertainty

All of what I write may be perceived as unverifiable knowledge, but it is more influenced by experience and often then approved by others with more evidence or better ability to capture it in words. I allow thoughts to be just that, until another has the same. That’s when the fun begins. Questioning begins in the mind, where the true origins of sovereignty lie dormant. When inspiration strikes the mind must determine: who sent you? Critical thinking is the ability to discern if these passing stimuli are to be integrated, and only after they are deemed worthy can they be articulated into action. We are not our thoughts, rather we have the ability to turn our thoughts into our selves through behavior. What you act on is your responsibility. How you make that determination… I can’t gift you that.

I continue a search for someone with more experience so they may right my drifting mind through practice of a better way of living. Anything I set out to learn is approached with abundant skepticism, challenging the world to provide me with experience that either sets me straight or disproves the hypothesis of the pure intellectual. My aim, as I endeavor to always be, is a practitioner of everything, rather than a voyer watching life events and gaining only the pleasure of vicariousness. Though I often crave disembodiment in all its pleasures, I honor the inescapable fact that we were placed here—with each other—in these bodies; and so I commit to being as human as humanly possible.

This is the privilege of the explorer, as he leaves society for a time, and all those captured by it. Most are trapped, unsurprisingly so, as groups are much more physically powerful than the individual and can snuff out singular rebellion effortlessly. Privilege often stands opposed to oppression, as those at the bottom point upwards in resentment of someone who is so clearly unaware of what they've been given. While many toil under the thumb of tyrants, unaware nitwits twiddle their swollen appendages in front of screens. Our “advanced system” values lazy plops just enough to convince them to adore their comfy chair confinement, sorting numbers to support the sedation towards everyone’s detriment. By extension those luxuriously lacking awareness support the oppression of everyone. I'm no different, as I am doing the same with symbols now, gathering my own form of comforts in experiences and hoping it is worth something. If placated in the illusion that producing words is change itself, I become no more than a squeaky wheel that is mostly ignored because there are so many more carts to choose from, and they support over-consumption without complaint. It’s too easy to believe that contemplating the difficulties of the world, choosing optimism, and sending out “good vibes” is enough.

What shall the privileged do? If returned in guilt, gifts are spoiled for both the bestower and the gifted, dishonoring the efforts of benevolence.

The awareness of oppression inspires guilt in everyone involved. Adopting a victimized mindset can provide brief release, as blame is pointed elsewhere. But we are all to blame as participants in the human struggle. The top cannot be higher without something below. The solution isn’t as easy as saying these things, because they are merely pointers as well, and we are so deep in the hierarchy of things. The difficulty must be transcended by helping each other, or more deeply seeing everyone as another side of ourself. If we were to look upon every human we encounter as we look upon our most treasured body parts, it would be easy to lend a helping hand.

But we’re hardly able to look upon our own body parts as a symbiotic system. Our most distal parts are not just connected to the central nervous system, they are the opposite end of the same system. Purpose is reliant on the interconnected needs of everything, circularly existing only with each other. The mind, knowing your feet are an extension of itself can assist them in taking another step towards progress. Helping your feet helps your hands to find another to lift from the oppression.

The imbalance of prosperity in our world is an opportunity for every person to elevate the less fortunate in the presentation of life that was so gifted. Life is not fair, it operates as an ever balancing continuum that provides endless opportunity for a person to honor that which was freely given. Without that imbalance, there would be scant reminders for gratitude, and even fewer chances for redemption. Each time we honor a gift we train our mind to see the world in a little brighter light, an openness to more luminosity that can be shared by a simple passing gaze. Gifts are shared, the very nature of the interaction elevating everyone, gifting those involved and even those watching with a chance to see the world as an inclusive place. The hope of human beings is sharing in abundance despite knowing there are many who cannot have as much, or even come close to the beautiful gifts they’ve been given. Those “others” are simply in another location on the spectrum. In honoring our creativity, we bend the spectrum and reach those who need us most. So it becomes—reaching down pulls us all upward—as we unite with the inclusive nature of everything.

But these are just words. Today you are given an opportunity to stand up and pull someone else out of the same pit you know all too well.

Once you know why, all you need to find is a who. All the rest will fall into place.