The Beginning

I want to tell you about now. I know that what is stopping me is that I believe that I don't know how. Every day flooded with these thoughts and awsome inspirition. Moments pass auspiciously-and me without a pen and papaer. I've carried a pad and pen and never had a thought I thought worth writing 'till I put them down again. So here I am, able, willing, and ready, as vacant as a parking lot.
I want to tell you about the symbiote, about the two inside, the blurring of the lines. About the familiar look that may be the only way to describe his face, the familiar tone which may be all that's left of his personality. I want to tell you of how uncomfortable it feels to listen to the chaotic ramblings streaming from his location. Like watching a star caught in the eddy of a black hole. Brilliance rendered impotent, flagellating forcefully, as if to move is to live.
All this time spent churning out drivel for fear of not doing anything at all. Life is full of pain and confusion, and not without brief respites, yet I seem to find fault with most of them to these days. I all too often find myself inspired without a pen.

The Beginning.

I began to wonder recently if I were sane, or if in fact I might be losing my mind. There's been a lot of talk about crazy on the mental airwaves, something of a critical mass approaching. Like a point of no return. Perhaps at last a reason to live. To tell a story that everyone knows but none have aptly intimated. The story of you. For the story of one is the story of another. The story of us all.
This subtle, fleeting sensation. A feeling like being home at last, or something sweet we had as a child. The nectar of our innocent interpretaion of the truth. Now so far away it seems more like an abstracted concept than something that exists. Yet we all were, and all our children are... there.
The netherland. The Egoscape. The war is waged inside us. There is peace telling us what to do, but the thought of listening so disturbs our local reality that we more often lie ourselves to sleep, than pay attention.
What if we were to admit what we were; what we believed? What's interesting is that we are more afraid of telling the secrets everyone else already knows or can at least surmise. No... the parts we really don't want people to know are the parts we in fact hide from ourselves. The parts we let pass in moments of anger. The dangerous caring about cheating spuoses. The parts which process pain. The parts which make our faces crinkle in that way which others know to be characteristically ours.
Letting the world at large know who we are leaves us vulnerable. And for many, the egg our ego's are in shatters easily. You... and me. Why do you think I've been in the dark for so long? Worried that you'd all hate me. And yet I hate none of you. None of you that I know anyway.

Hate impies love. Love enough to let it get under your skin. And love implies an open heart left vulnerable. Hate is the result when that vulnerability is betrayed. Hate is the closing of the open heart around a careless act of the beloved.
The default state of the Human being is love--open and unconditional. When that love is betrayed it closes the door to the source of that betrayal. We grow and change like that until we become a focussed being; open only to that which our hearts can stand. Hate expires and the doors can be re-opened, but fear--loves opposite--lives in the mind as the release of certain neurotransmitters and in the body as certain endocrinological states. It is interpreted as a reason not to re-open the doors. For fear of being hurt again? Not exactly, for what we are actually afraid of is the fear itself. Fear is "secreted," for lack of a better word, as a warning and a primer. It tells us our death is at hand... be ready!
That's enough to keep most of us from venturing furthur or to even dwell on the subject. It's not until we go through the fear that we are able to even see what's inside the door. Our healed heart. We "go through," the fear by retreating into our heart. By taking refuge in the safety of the unconditionally forgiving nature of our heart.
When we look in at the heart, instead of through the fearfull lense of perhaps a window in the door, we find that it has healed and is ready and eager to love again. The heart lives to love, keeping it behind doors, preventing it from touching, from being touched, robs it of it's very purpose for being. The door must then be opened. A decision is made, muscles relax, air is exhaled, and the kilobytes of memory glow as the door, the fear, is uninstalled all around it.
And then we're free. And we can see that the mind reacted to the fear secreted at the time of love's betrayal by building a fence around the memory, a door in front of it, to prevent us from ever re-visiting that painful moment. Staying alive is a rudimentary priority built into the core of our being. A person in the process of killing themself might still pull their hand away from heat or dodge an airplane as it crashed through their apartment window. Why? Not because they want to live, but because the body has failsafes which kick in faster than the mind can think in some cases. Fear is secreted and the mind must protect itself and its carrier from the source or stimulus of that fear release. In the process of building the door however, the unfortunate side effect is that since the memory/stimulus resides in the heart, access to that section of the heart is also restricted.
When this knee-jerk reaction to fear goes unabated; when the compartmentalizing of the heart becomes so vast that a way in cannot be found, the result is a bitter, spiteful, hateful person. An eye for an eye is not a recommendation, it's a description of the way in which things usually occurr.
When a person no longer has the regular access to their heart, other ways may be found. Usually through pleasure. The hearts love is unconditional. It loves the things which give us pleasurue and it loves the things which give us pain. The mind is the differentiator.
The pain and the truth of now. I want to tell you about the things I'm afraid of. Of the things I hide. Of the lost conviction of the cowering from what is.
Do we not long to be? To be wholly and unconditionally accepted as what we are where we are? To be known, to be seen, to be truly represented in the light. To reflect and to shine that brilliance un-besmirched by shame?

It ran in his blood. A longing for the thrill of desire. That which could destroy was that which he created. Why? There was always. ---The Drunken ramblings of the intoxicated .---As if to say there were, or to imply there a deeper and more profound meaning to the destruction of self. Something other than impatient dismissal of the truth as intolerable and not wotrth the time to consider fully.
Were there? Are there times when the consumption of that which destroys is a moment arrived upon without rushing or avoidance intended?
These concepts plagued or permeated the existence of the symbiote. They were thoughts no longer--if ever escapable. They were the voices of reason and confusion. clearly transmitting their obscure message. A muddy mixture of righteous treason
And there you had it the evidentiary contradiction in terms which held back the will, which holds the will to fathom, to understand the truth of our form, in catatonia.
2 voices, equally compelling, lending interpretations of a moment which don't, at first appear to be able to simultaneously true.