I think I have decided not to kill myself. I’ve been on this planet over half a century, so that is a bit of a delayed decision, but based on what I read, if one is going to do it, in the present era I am in prime time. Rock stars die at 27 of being rock stars, and middle aged alcoholic men die despondently and alone in their mid-50’s.
What I realized yesterday is that the first thing I do every morning on waking up is build an emotional bubble around myself, which keeps out all the “bad stuff”. It has kept out ideas of suicide, of aggression and rage, of despair and terror.
And it takes will maintaining this bubble. My will tires, which is why even now I periodically get drunk, as I did last night. I drank a 750 of Ketel One vodka. It was worth it. Drinking like that is a bit of a psychedelic experience. For me, at any rate, it evokes and brings out in full color emotions which were hidden, such as the latent thirst for death.
When I was 17-18 I was an exchange student in Switzerland. I well remember the segment on Novalis, the German poet/philosopher, who wrote often of the “Sehnsucht nach dem Tod”, which I may as well translate as a thirst for suicide or an easy and early death.
I looked at the world back then, without knowing it, the way a dissociated Insectologist might view a collection of butterflies from many years ago. To say I was passionless would be wrong, but so too would be saying I was connected and flowing.
Well, somewhere in the past week or so I permeated the bubble. I popped it, and let all the rottenness in. And I seem to be dealing acceptably well with it. This is the only path to relaxation and peace. You have to learn to trust yourself. Most of us are fine most of the time.
In my own mind I call this the Sphere Principle. It seems unlikely I have not mentioned this in the past ten years, but I haven’t recently, I don’t think.
I would assert that our task on Earth, one which is virtually impossible, is to become so pure that if we had the power of manifesting all our thoughts and feelings, nothing but good would result.
The interesting part of this, to me–or at least one interesting part–is that the fear of not measuring up to our own potential causes our actual potential to diminish. We need, on the one hand, self doubt to push us, but on the other limit ourselves by using this method.
The universe is infinite, and so is time, or so we can reasonably suppose. They are both vastly larger than our limited capacities can ever experience in millions of lifetimes. And so I propose that we do best when we accept, to some degree, our limitations and imperfections, and of course those of others.
If I am very, very demanding of me, then it follows that I can view you with contempt for doing less. You, in turn, are confused, dazed, shocked, and barely getting by, if you are honest. That is nearly all of us. The people who are sure, and walking with fixity and confidence of purpose are those on short term tasks, and who depend on such things for their sanity. The large world is much too large for them. No laying in meadows watching butterflies for them. The Milky Way is an answer to a Jeopardy question.
This may be true. It may not be true. I can accept both answers. What I will suggest though is that there are limits to our organic capacity for love. We can truly love perhaps a dozen people in a lifetime, no more. The rest is duty and habit. There is no loving “humankind”. People who claim to be able to do so love the idea of themselves loving humankind. That is my feeling at the moment at any event. Anything larger must come from God, and there you are loving only one Thing, which is the unity of the Divine, and seeing it in every face. Namaste.
I was reading about Brian Jones the other day. Did you know he founded the Rolling Stones and gave them their name? And that he was kicked out of the band before he died in his infamous swimming pool? He died at 27 in 1969. That means he was born during World War 2. This just hit me the other day. So too were Mick Jagger and Keith Richards (both 1943). Paul McCartney was born in 1942, and John Lennon in 1940.
All of them were born into worlds of trial and difficulty. The British Invasion, in some respects, was born while Britain itself was trying to stem off an actual invasion.
I am tempted to say more, but if I am going to strike a proper pose, I should probably stop writing.
That, there: that is me having a second cup of excellent coffee (one of the dozen or so things I love in this world), and looking forward to the day, for once.