As the cult of absurdity veers towards fatal climax, where we place our attention becomes synonymous with sovereignty.
The July Non-Forecast
When all of consciousness gets squeezed through the eye of the needle, specifics such as identity and purpose cannot make the transit, only the all, only the absolute, only everything. When consciousness returns to itself, there is only one thing anyway. Old and new realities will continue to sit cheek by jowl, life and death will stare each other in the face, until the last vestiges of our resistance are spent. To be clear, we are not surrendering. Rather, we are being surrendered. So let’s grieve properly for our losses, the end of control, and the winding down of the selfhood project.
But let’s also not confuse the apparent loss of self-determination with a loss of sovereignty. We cannot lose what we’ve never fully possessed. Sovereignty is the silver cord linking all those shadowy and barely remembered lives, whose faces flash by now in feverish dream. It’s a multi-dimensional reconciliation and all our characters — the venal and the saintly alike — are coming home. It’s so tempting to engage them, their stories are so potent, but nothing is truly lost. An idea alone can last forever.
Through our inattention to the transient streams bidding for our loyalty, we are reclaiming the power of unmanifest creation. Why unmanifest? To rid us of our fixation with form, our insistence on the way things should look, even our predilection to catastrophize when form itself disintegrates. Nor is it creation for creation’s sake, an etheric indulgence of stellar geometries. As the world spins and splinters, and the cult of absurdity veers towards fatal climax, where we place our attention becomes synonymous with sovereignty.
By withdrawing our attention from the old world and all its shrill posturing, we are withdrawing our consent for its continued existence. This is not the consent of the narrowly focused will, but the consent of newly embodied sovereignty. Meantime, we enter the charnel ground of nothingness, haunted only by hungry ghosts; a dubious ‘reward’ for this new-found sovereignty.
This in-between space is a featureless void or the cosmic womb, take your pick. Therein lies the ruse. Awakening to new levels of unreality may feel like a lucid nightmare, not some airbrushed dream — and ‘progress’ in linear terms can deliver a new level of despair. It’s peculiar, though, this despair, because for once it comes without clinging. There’s nothing to cling to. It seems we have pierced the illusion but not claimed our freedom.
Yet if we can allow the astral miasma its ghastly sideshow, the liberation of absolute creation on its own terms beckons. We become skywalkers, travellers between worlds and realities, tempted only by time and its flimsy promise of certainty. Our radical do-nothingness springs the trap. The illusion of time itself is an illusion; a multi-layered parlor game sustained by bad actors who had convinced us that they had more than one trick. Seeing through the holographic reality show maintains the holographic reality show. Belief sustains belief itself. What’s real? This breath, this moment, this emptiness. There’s no evidence to support our arrival, because there’s nowhere else to be and there’s only one of us anyway.
Outside of time, we ave arrived before we have arrived. The ego is disarmed by allowing it to think it is strong, when its position is weak. In its overreach, the ego — futilely scrabbling for time, for delay, for defeat — falls victim to its own weight and momentum. Thankfully, it’s quite funny. We have landed on our asses. We haven’t seen through the holograph now, but beyond, and it’s all a cosmic giggle.
The mind liberated from the ego’s perpetual defensiveness can do what it does best: build structure from raw creation. That is, structure for a new life in a new world that doesn’t yet exist. It’s not such a conundrum when you consider that the new world is first born inside us. Our bodies, our fields, our lives are the structure of the new world. Through the eye of the needle, there is only total acceptance of everything and nothing, and we don’t have to wait a moment longer for our golden age to begin.