Suppressing the willingness to critically analyze the world around us has always been a band-aid at best, an impossibility for some. Every stone too heavy to move eventually gets relocated by the mother of invention. She taught me Real Solace; the elusive skill of locating the esoteric veins, the high of maniacal irony and humor in the face of the darkest truths. That challenging checkpoint of the soul where only the depth of our lunacy and creative bursts of brilliance can bring the levity necessary to continue childishly approaching perception, knowing that darkness can only hide in shadows safe to the degree that a culture fails to embrace it’s collective adulthood. A handful of cosmic grandma’s wait for the flood; that profound moment of power, the sense of a mission or grand objective to overcome the infantility of protecting elaborate cocoons and fantastical myths. Waiting for a force of nature to rouse what to the laymen is the highest painful sacrifice and to the practitioner is the beginnings of freedom; that place where belief systems shatter, and the heroes we all thought we needed exposed as cheap magick that kept us clinging to children stories, reassuring fictions while the mad men ran the world ragged.
Such exponential hubris, all those stories we argued as true, an agenda with no listening skills, from the days in the incubator, when I could barely comprehend the noise outside, how a drop added to a body of water that becomes the ocean that ends human bondage with a mandate, a numbers game won, a coalition of the awake and alive, finally standing at the abyss, nakedly and unflinchingly observing. The great catalyst, our hallmark of maturity, is simply the will to see, illuminating the beasts and shadows protected by our willful ignorance, lurking in the deepest recesses of our rabbit hole, built by mysterious architects, long neglected. Optimism’s twisted definition amounts to the lowly, un-esteemable death and decay that comes with a culture ignoring the escalating infestation of snakes. With each passing day, it begs for humanity to outgrow the need for fairytales, that draw us closer to a just, self-fulfilling prophecy, ensuring a more deeply considered, happier ending on paper then on earth.
… Pretty much the kind of baggage that makes all forms of sentient life galactically ban you and your time-travelling offspring for life from all the best interstellar watering holes, coupled with unapologetically bad seating out in the dark corners of the milky way, not a glance from anyone with less than 14 eyes, unable to interest even a Semi-Organic Cephelopod to join for a drink.