remember the Prophet and the Prostitute? I am that prostitute. Whether that story was the memory of a past life, or an intensified version of this one.
I bleed in the Mediterranean and fall at the temple of my master's feet. The temple is so far away, and my body withers in the suffering that has become me.
I know this is a great havale before the ceremony in June. A ceremony I am not sure I may even attend.
I have driven those who love me mad with frustration. This girl plagued deeper into the recesses of her own mind, a tortured place where all the pain of the world is unaccepted, undigested in her belly. Friends have turned their back to me as they continue onward, they withdraw their kindness. I am without a home once more, as I depended stupidly on the kindness of strangers. With no where to go, and nothing to return to, where shall I go now in such deep humiliation that people of this world know so well how to pour?
Now is the time, there is no more going forward, nor back. Now is the time to choose either to live or to die.
I cannot go on living like this anymore. When I came to Spain, it was the last utopia of my illusions. That book that I wrote at the age of seventeen... the fantasy I lived in and breathed life into... shattered last week. I have been living in illusion to get by, because my relationship to this world is like a dying marriage. The life, my lover I always wanted to be softer, gentler, kinder... generous.
Yet instead, found myself in an abusive dynamic since the age of childhood. I grew up hating this place. My first memories were of violence, blood and tears. I wanted to leave shortly after I came. At the age of three, I awoke one night to this violent white light illuminating everything in the darkened room.
I saw my mother sleep next to me... the night was so still and this light was beckoning me to follow.
At three, I knew it was God... the Spirit had come to take me. Everything about this light was Whole, and Pure. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to return back to unity and yet...
as I reached for the door to lead me outside, my mother awoke and grabbed me. She asked me what I was doing in bewilderment. I saw fear in her eyes. I couldn't understand this fear. It was a product of this world. God was beckoning me, why would I want to stay here? I cried for her to let go of me as she carried me back to bed. I groped out into the thin air where the light was, and asked her to look.
"Do you see it! Do you see this light!?"
But she saw nothing there.
"It was nothing, but a dream. We go back to bed."
Back to sleep. Back into the world of unconsciousness. I felt there my soul shatter. But my soul descended here by choice, why then do I feel forced to stay? Ever since that night, I have been clamoring in vain to go back there.
I met a man, who also ached for a softer world... and was drawn to him instantly.
We were like magnets, in our hatred of this world, yet desire still to help it, to contribute in some way.
But how? When fundamentally, every cell is screaming to return home.
I hated his rejection of this life, until I realized he was a mirror of myself.
This rejection ultimately brings nothing but suffering. Life becomes a prison. A cage that you dream of escaping. You do not help anyone, you do not love anyone... and the lack of commitment the people in your life feel from you is not because you aren't committed to them, or don't try....
it's because you don't even want to be here. Everything life encompasses has been rejected, so how can one truly foster any kind of relationship?
I don't resent that man anymore. The past day, bleeding and weeping I understand now what I have denied for so long.
When my dreams were shattered there was nothing left. Nothing left for me to hold onto to pretend even remotely that I wanted to be here.
This land where all my loved ones were safe, and fed, and loved. A home they could come to.... gone. Buried here.
My heart is broken. I placed all my hopes and desires into an illusion, into a fantasy governing my life. It willed me to keep going, to keep myself alive.
I have always used my fantasy world as a reason to endure. My commitment to the other world is far greater than it is to this one.
When these illusions shattered, what else anchors me to these floors? Nothing.
There is almost a sick relief that my mother, grandmother and love are sick. If they die soon, then there is no regret in taking my own life.
I don't know how to be here. Maybe I came to Europe alone all along to let go.
Maybe the greatest surrender is being honest for once in my life. Who have I lived for all these years? My mother, my family... my master, my friends....
enough.
If I cannot live wholeheartedly, if I cannot commit myself to life completely, than I choose not to live at all.
Everything I do must be wholeheartedly. Even in death.
I pray and ache for the desire to choose life. I want to accept this world the way it is and stop comparing it to the beauty that lives in my dreams. Every writer is cursed with this... that is why half of us go mad and kill ourselves.
The world's we paint are so rich with beauty and so terrifying in agony....
This world has never bore a sunrise or sunset to the magnificence of what I've seen in my dreams....
a lover has been been inside of me with the same intensity and overwhelming love that I've felt in my dreams.
Alas this is what it will be, what once nourished me, destroyed me. My dreams have become the death of me.