One constantly scampers along the ground to get onto to one's feet, to get oneself ahead of the crowd, only to be pushed down, not by the hand of this or that peer, but by some phantom energy which we have created in the endless friction of our busyness. We exist to resist. We fight always to keep our heads above water and remind ourselves that we are truly alive in those chance moments our lungs can capture a bit of clean air. Such is modern life. We have more to alleviate our sense of responsibility and more distractions to pour into our hearts and minds, all the while praying for catharsis, a need we created out of absolutely nothing. We burn the bridges to our every hope. We trade what is good for paltry substitutes and pat ourselves on the back because they were achieved through what we perceived to be our 'reason,' our sense of 'self.' We fail to realize that it is this sense of self which reasoned itself into a prison of justification for our basest desires. How can we even say that we want what we want when we know deep down that no satiation will ever be the last of its kind?
Pessimism and optimism are both constituents in a bipartisan metaphysics in which values have no scale and no gradation save their own opposites. One has to choose God or the devil, but never both. One doesn't dare cross the threshold; even all antinomianism is dependent on the love of desecrating a well established folly; the fell dagger dragging across the long dead flesh of a corpse made ever more putrid with one's insisting on its presence as a reminder of just how much one can turn one's back on. Whole sentiments of the corpse will arise. Whole religions will celebrate the death of folly in reason, which can then be traded for a more calculated folly; a folly of titanic bonds made tighter through one's very testing of its nature. To destroy destiny for the sake of fleeing it, this is our modern ouroboros: hatred of destiny. Death becomes what remains of us when we've taken all before our time. It is not a fullness but a lack made all the more bitter by the fact that we've severed every fountain of sympathy but our own justification for our lack of inhibition. We created being out of death itself, ever rewarding ourselves for not being fooled by life. We were resolute in our hatred, in our coterminous drive to both hate folly whilst offering it free reign in the garden of our souls. We love lies even after they've stopped feeding us any momentary sustenance. We love them now only as a sort of habit. But this is no ordinary habit which is unaware of itself. It is much like the habit of the heroin addict who understands that the unstoppable escalation of his folly will be the end of him. If he hasn't stopped caring, he has certainly stopped caring enough to change.
Is there a mechanism by which we can measure the place in which one must sit and the way in which one must perceive the violent, swirling world around one so as to become addicted to the intoxicant of reality? Cancel false being. Our recreational generation of solid concepts, which become synonymous, and thus symbiotic, with the very thoughts we think will ultimately weigh us down like an old, broken ox. Obsersvation itself must be cleansed. And what will this cleansing take? Many prophets and renegades would have one believe that a series of violent images must be witnessed in mass; that a series of wake-up calls must jolt the greatest number into reality. However, we can go running after such images in our lust of sequence as markers of time and space and miss what is essential and right in front of us. Violent solutions only push us deeper into our insatiable thirst for effect. So many effects will be gathered in the time to come that causes will vanish. They are already disparate traces in danger of fading like whispers in a storm. In the midst of so many masks, one needs not a face underneath.
One can only direct these enormous currents to which our lives are usually in a state of grave vulnerability by standing a bit further from them; by taking more in at once. But, as with all things that require mastery, one is baffled more and more while scaling this mountain, for each step reveals just how much ignorance darkened one's past, and how much of the mountain is left to scale.
Having spent long enough in the unpolluted air, having been humbled by its coextensive thinness, one learns to slow down. One learns the best way to plant one's footing on this or that rock with the minimum of exertion. Exertion itself is then only a proof to oneself of how much energy was stored up in that time of rest; it becomes a sort of test of one's strength. All the while, in the interim, one is gliding, content and patient to discover the places which give the sensation of being signatures of destiny. As these are discovered in higher frequency, much like chance buried treasure which has become the currency of everyday life, one glides across one's terrain in such a way that one seems to be flying.
One then goes through life feeling one is getting away with something. 'Do I deserve such a position?' one asks oneself. 'Will I be discovered as someone with a flippant attitude toward the lofty rock that is life?' But then, one realizes that this propensity to calm, this eagerness for clarity and equilibrium, is the very birthright of those who are earnest enough to find it. In one's zeal for flight, one reaches the highest places, in which one is no longer ascending and scaling but leaping between exalted planes, traversing the terrain gifted to the patient; to those who were able to treat the rest of the journey with the same sense of flight.
One is served best by one's path when one learns how best to serve it. The balance always offers an exchange of features and yet, one's position in relation to these features must remain the same. One must know the great seal that cancels discord between all seemingly opposed phenomena, even if the opposition is only within oneself (one realizes that this is where all oppositions truly reside).