JOY IN THE HORROR
The Universe, life and everything, run on contrast, juxtaposition, paradox
THERE IS A LAKE & AT THE BOTTOM IS AN AFFIRMATION
Experience is a juxtaposition. Acceptance releases. Openness to the unseen, friendliness and affinity towards the unknown, provides clarity of vision. And both enable an unforced resolution, to sense what an experience is, and what naturally follows from what is happening.
As opposed to egoic preoccupation with the shrapnel and debris which scatter from wilful resistence, patterns that reinforce confusion and misery. Or—what you resist, persists.
And today in our modern dystopia, misery sells better than sex. Of course, sex always sells—but no one wants to fuck anymore.
Because everyone is miserable.
CHOOSE YOUR PROBLEMS
What luck and fortune finds us, or whatever hardship or misery weighs us down, fits the story we are now telling ourselves about ourselves.
Like a jigsaw piece that completes a self-image, and covers empty space underneath, however elegantly or forced; to make the void disappear.
The image we project from the story about ourselves which we script and imagine to satisfy the cause of our misery—contributes not insignificantly to the instructions we give the world.
A prolonged misery is more than misfortune. It's appropriate; satisfying, when the image we anticipate resolves and our story self-validates.
The world will not deny us what we want to see and feel. And what we see and feel eventually becomes a personality.
The choice therefore is attention. The misery, the image, or the story? The problem, the characterization of the problem, or the system that supports and leverages the problem.
JOY IN THE HORROR
At whatever vector we decide to redirect our attention, with dedication we invariably arrive at the same vulnerable place; that blank, that emptiness. That void.
That which is, of course, none of those things. The fruitful void, a friend once said, or quoted.
Vulnerability allows shame, fear, rejection. Interrupting cycles to script a new story can upset the predictable balance that had supported the old one. Ourselves will probably want to reject anything besides what we have long and reasonably become complacent to believe is true about us.
In the uncanny depths of what we have long covered up we discover a lusty juxtaposition: There is no escape, and there is freedom.
That is the joy and the horror of healing.
Healing, which is more than repeating affirmations and positive thinking. No shade on neuro-linguistic practices; only to say, that the journey inward to that vulnerable place—from which we can articulate and give the world better instructions, make the subconscious conscious, and design and cultivate our tastes and discernment authentically—passes through some wild and possibly inherited and obscene wreckage.
Wreckage that perhaps has called our names since childhood.
Allow the healing journey to be as gross, weird, abhorrent, absurd, beautiful, misunderstood, passionate, and fucked up as it is.
Clear the detritus of potential versions of self repressed, so far expressed only in misery and resistance, as devil energy constipated in the subconscious where conditioning has rendered complacency and numbness safer conscious preoccupations than the horrors of uncertainty and change, of freedom.
Shadows in dialogue with the light give true affirmation. The healing journey is a unique expression of juxtaposition.
Where horror integrated, is joy.