Here is how Martin Buber, the Jewish theologian, describes the compulsion of the mystic to capture the fleeting unity of consciousness:
YES IT IS TRUE; THE ECSTATIC [MYSTIC] CANNOT SAY THE UNSAYABLE. HE SAYS THE OTHER THING—IMAGES, DREAMS, VISIONS—NOT UNITY. HE SPEAKS, HE MUST SPEAK, BECAUSE THE WORD BURNS IN HIM. . . . HE DOES NOT LIE WHO SPEAKS OF UNITY IN IMAGES, DREAMS, VISIONS, WHO STAMMER OF UNITY.. . . HE SAYS THE FORMS AND SOUNDS AND NOTICES THAT HE IS NOT SAYING THE EXPERIENCE, NOT THE GROUND, NOT THE UNITY, AND WOULD LIKE TO STOP HIMSELF AND CANNOT, AND FEELS THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF SAYING IT, LIKE A SEVEN-LOCKED GATE WHICH HE RATTLES, KNOWING THAT IT WILL NEVER OPEN, YET HE MUST GO ON RATTLING IT. FOR THE WORD BURNS IN HIM. ECSTASY IS DEAD, STABBED IN THE BACK BY TIME, WHICH CANNOT BE MOCKED; BUT, DYING, IT HAS FLUNG THE WORD INTO HIM, AND THE WORD BURNS IN HIM. AND HE SPEAKS, SPEAKS, HE CANNOT BE SILENT, THE FLAME IN THE WORD DRIVES HIM, HE KNOWS THAT HE CANNOT SAY IT, YET HE TRIES OVER AND OVER AGAIN UNTIL HIS SOUL IS EXHAUSTED TO DEATH AND THE WORD LEAVES HIM. THIS IS THE EXALTATIO OF THE ONE WHO HAS RETURNED INTO THE COMMOTION AND CANNOT RESIGN HIMSELF TO IT; THIS IS HIS INSURRECTION, THE INSURRECTION OF A SPEAKER: RELATED TO THE INSURRECTION OF THE POET, SLIGHTER IN POSSESSION, MIGHTIER IN EXISTENCE, THAN HIS. THIS IS THE BENDING OF THE BOW FOR THE SAYING OF THE UNSAYABLE, AN IMPOSSIBLE TASK, A LABOR IN THE DARK. IT’S WORK, THE CONFESSION, BEARS ITS MARK. (9-10)
I would venture to say that we all know the burning of the Word. We know the work in the dark. And indeed, such confessional work bears its mark.
Like prophets, we go into our caves. We know the peace beyond the commotion of the every day, and we cannot entirely resign ourselves to this ordinary commotion. There is something deeper. Something below the surface, beyond the clatter. There are ways to transcend the commotion and seek an inspired insight that transforms human life.
there is light in us dim it may be i know it’s eternal there is darkness in us it appears to eat the light but light can’t die you can cover the light but it’s always there light knows light light is life light is forever stay close to the light when you travel in dark lands it knows your knowing it whispers in your ear it tickles your ass it licks your mind it sticks its tongue in your ear kinky
Not that anyone asked or needs to know, but know who you are reading.
A human being.
“I will govern my life and thoughts as if the whole world were to see the one and read the other, for what does it signify to make anything a secret to my neighbor, when to God, who is the searcher of our hearts, all our privacies are open?”
—Seneca the Younger
I am no nihilist.
I am no atheist.
I am no agnostic.
I am no believer.
I am no mystic.
I am no Angel.
I am no spy.
I am no Demon.
I am a human being.
I move swiftly, like 💨 and 🔥
Seneca the Younger spoke against the folk religion of the common people. But he had a deep sense of the invisible mover of our Will, God. Choose your name. Let us call it the original human religion.
I do not deny the invisible hand in my life, truly, I credit it with creating my will and body. I do not preach about this god. I reflect on the beauty of it in my life. I cannot teach this god. I cannot reveal this god to you. I cannot name it, nor do I claim it. Nor do I feel myself more special than any other. But I know this as I know my breath. Both mysterious in a way and profoundly beautiful. I am not so arrogant to imagine myself god’s special creation. This is all special and wonderful and beautiful and the ugly is beautiful too in a way. God itself can correct me through my clear burning Will, but no human could.
The rich man feasted in his high hall, Bright torches shining everywhere, When a man too poor to own a lamp Crept to the side to share in the glow. Who would think they would drive him away, Back again to his place in the dark? “Will one more person detract from your light? Strange, to begrudge me a leftover beam!”
A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that that patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.
— Jorge Luis Borges
once upon a time there was an old star who had thought it had seen everything…
one day it spied with its timeless eye a small blue gem…
what is this new thing covered in blue water…
suddenly, without warning, the star began to fall…
faster and faster…smaller and smaller…until he could fit on the head of pin…
blackness…and then there was light…a bright wet light…
no memory of who he used to be and was still yet up there in the sky…
one day a bird was heard singing by the Hu-Man boy…
I have a disease
I am a Lover
I am not alone
From this living water
And you will lose yourself
And taste my madness
Drink the water of life
The kingdom of God
Is only in the Now
At the end of the Rainbow
Love never fails
It never runs out
It will last until
The final grain of time
Has fallen from
The Hand of God
And then you will know