Sleep finally comes; I hope in its lying promise
that it will dull my pain;
but my dreams are as dark as life
and then the tragedy comes
that I wake again.
And I dream of another sleep
that will never end
but I know the dream is a lie
because everything is a lie
and all that exists is pain
and hope has gone to sleep
like I vainly wish I could do.
And so I push through another ghastly day
and wait until I can sleep
another lying sleep
from which I know I’ll have to arise
and do it all over again
In my previous two posts (here and here), I discussed the meaning of life, the universe and everything as my awakening consciousness is beginning to see it. In this final installment, I intend to make it more personal. What is the meaning of my life? What is my purpose in this world? The really cool thing is that I get to have a purpose. But the even cooler thing is that I get to make it up. I can create a purpose for myself that can be absolutely anything I want, bounded only by the infinite complexity of my own imagination. And if I decide I don’t like my purpose, I can just make up a new one. Infinite times if I have to. There are no rules for it besides whatever rules I choose to create for myself. It’s a godlike freedom that I find exhilarating.
I just re-read my initial post about the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, and felt frustrated by how it struck me as just a tangle of words that didn’t really convey the reality I’ve been experiencing. No one could read those words and immediately experience the same feeling of awakening consciousness that I’ve been feeling. That’s frustrating to me, because I’ve always put a very high premium on words. But words, like everything else that tries to convey or capture reality, are only metaphors. And reality itself can only be experienced immediately, without metaphor. So now, instead of trying the impossible task of explaining what I’ve been feeling, I’ll undertake the more intuitive task of just telling my story of how I arrived at the place where I feel those things.
(which turns out to be a number after all, but not forty-two)
I’ve been pursuing my kundalini yoga consistently and intensely since the spring equinox this year, and I’ve lately reached the point where the kriyas I do every morning have aligned my energies all the way up to my crown. I can now feel the energy flowing up my spine and through my crown and sort of carrying me through the day. More to the point, when that energy reached my crown, it gave me a series of epiphanies, or eureka moments, which have helped me understand the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. It is, in fact, a number, which someone as far back as Pythagoras already knew. But sorry, Arthur Clarke, the number is not forty-two. 😉
In our homeschooling this fall we’ve jumped into astronomy, so tonight I took the kids out with a star atlas and binoculars to scan the night skies.
Yesterday, after I had conquered an ugly migraine that wanted to keep me down, I followed Cerelys around for a little more of her hectic day to record another chapter of her story (I’ll proofread and post it later). She’s been getting into some dangerous places, deep in the sordid heart of the illegal story trade, as she runs around and works her magic for Mordrin, who’s frantically trying to keep the peace in Gadilia while he builds his network and prepares for the big vote. The autonomous regions are vital for his plan, but without the unifying presence of Gadilia, they’ll be far too splintered to offer any useful assistance. Peace-making is tricky work, but Cerelys is good at it. And of course the DUE-PIPs are still giving her headaches, but I think for the first time she’s starting to appreciate just a little of their perspective. Although she’s still as convinced as ever of the basic injustice of their prohibition of stories.
During my three week vacation and trip out west, I did a lot of reading and no writing, which had the effect of making me think quite a bit about my writing in a philosophical sense – specifically what I gain from the practice that keeps me going. My ideas are still helter-skelter, but I thought I’d plunk them down anyway before I forget. One of the questions I ruminated on is why I’ve become so enthusiastic about the idea of keeping my art completely free. I know many others, with good reason, see the point differently. I’m not saying that artists don’t deserve to be compensated for their work, which enriches humanity — but for me, the freedom from thinking in those terms was exhilarating, and infused me with a fresh love of the joy of creating art for its own sake. When I quit worrying about the traditional route of publication and marketing, I found myself refreshingly free from the confusing and daunting process of hoping to find agents and editors and publishers, as important a service as they all offer. I was like a kid again. I could create just for the sheer joy of it, share it with the world as I’m making it, flaws and all, cast my stories to the wind like a child blowing on a dandelion, knowing that a hundred seeds might not find good soil, but if even one should take root and brighten the heart of another child with its pert shock of yellow, then the world would be immeasurably richer a place.