…The most deluded among us believe we are always on the cusp of a final breakthrough.
But there is no “we” to make the breakthrough.
It comes to every person on his own. And it does not arrive as the thrust of an external force, but from one’s own struggle, accompanied by insights for which there is no outside agency to lend confirmation.
If indeed it will take a thousand years to bring this collective illusion to a close, that is no cause for despondent reaction.
On the contrary, it is simply an understanding that all experiments come to an end, as does the method of thought on which they are based…
Trying to gain independence from this device isn’t easy. What is easy is to find oneself trapped in a cycle of content that seems interesting until it feels more like a drug. Body parts start complaining — like eyes, and ears, and back, and butt — “Get up and walk you fool. Get off this stool. You’re no better than on the pot. It’s all mostly trash. Your time is going down the drain. At the very least, you’re trying to live someone elses life.”
So, finding myself trapped watching Ten Hundred lately — incessantly, obsessively, compulsively — suddenly I realized that I was being aggravated with “Hey, Yo,” and other such hip hop slang and rap beats drumming at me incessantly. I was aggravated to realize that groups form and then there are insiders and outsiders and all the while and for the duration of the forming, there is only seeking higher status within that group if the correct words are used or a right body move, or a certain style of clothes are worn or whole bodies are filled with tattoos — hand symbols are without a doubt completely necessary.
Higher status — why need that anyway?
“Bitchin'”, “Groovy”, “Peace” tells of the group I was supposed to fit in and my age, give or take, here or there. I didn’t use those words then, so didn’t quite fit in. I use them now, just to account for where I’ve been. Bell bottoms were in fashion, and mini skirts and a metal peace symbol hung on just about everybody’s neck from a chain — but not mine — I wore a key instead, just for fitting in a little, and my skirts almost touched my knees. I wasn’t hip. I didn’t gain any higher status.
Here we are, wondering where our freedom is. We The People. Who are we now? Where can we go? Who should we be?
“We’re in this together.”
Yes we are — a world-wide cattle pen.
The only way out is to gain some independence. You’re on your own for that though. And that’s a really, really good thing. I’d hate to have to count on someone I don’t trust.