To stumble and not despair, to succumb to something mightier but not lose myself in it, to give in to something that scares me but not feel unsafe—these are the hills I love. The paths that, sweating, puffing, laughing, crying, with immense pleasure (and quite a bit of pain), I’m willing to walk at any time, any day.
I’m willing to feel the full range of emotions without manipulating them, without the intention to control, contain, or own them—because… who can own what? Who believes they can own the greatness of this expansion? Anyone who thinks they can conquer what life has to offer knows nothing about time, nothing about space, knows nothing about life itself. For there is nothing to control… not even the self.
All we have is feeling and experience, and as such, they are either memories of things that have happened or the direct, naked present moment. If we are honest enough, here, we can lose ourselves. There, and then, we might comprehend, in freedom.
Wtf, I love feeling dissolved into this world I see.
Dissolving into a story you read, becoming a character, feeling their feelings, living their life, even if just for a minute.
Dissolving as in the stupor of some psychedelic experience when your skin ceases to feel like a cage, and you extend beyond everything you touch.
Dissolving the self—as in an orgasm, shared or alone, so long as the whole thing builds up in a place of safety, of feeling, knowing you will float away without crashing down.
The metaphors and the dissolution are not new, but reading about them is one thing, and being in it is another. Being dissolved, not grasping reality, not grasping the ego, not grasping the body, not grasping time, not grasping the limits of my nerves or the matter that builds my body and constitutes my thoughts. But yet, it is not my matter because, in that moment of dissolving, I cease to exist, and everything exists in the silence of totality.
I often write about emptiness, silence, and totality as actual experiences—real as breathing. Maybe I’ve been lucky to find places that trigger me endlessly; perhaps the life I live and the things that happen to me tear away layers of illusion, painfully lifting veils and removing the comfort of the expected, the known. Possibly, my thirsty, truth-seeking soul, unafraid to crawl into the darkest crevices of feelings and thoughts, has been pierced by the sharp tongues of the hardened, bitter ignorance in the hearts of the unloved.
Dissolving is a kind of death. I wonder if learning to dissolve in nature, learning to dissolve in time, might help us prepare for death— for the ultimate participation in timelessness.
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