I’ve always entertained a basic conviction about the Universe – no matter what games we play, how we perceive our stimuli, or what information we choose to accept or ignore, there must be an ultimate underlying truth to facilitate the seemingly endless possibilities that exist before us.
I don’t know how that truth would be defined or understood if discovered – perhaps it would be a single law, or thought. I have no idea. But there must be something consistent, something elemental and stable that gives rise to the rest, or chaos would ensue.
The Earth reality is based on a fairly stable and repeatable ruleset that gives us a certain consistency, allowing us to understand our situations and evolve with them. If the walls melted every thirty seconds, or the scenery continuously changed from city to beach to S&M dungeon, life would get confusing and disjointed, and probably end up feeling pointless.
A search for truth has led me on several wild chases. If a fundamental truth exists, it must tie all things together – be it knitting scarves, smoking meth, or humping cheetahs. Each experience must contain a puzzle piece that accurately fits the universal picture.
You know what I really like about being unemployed?
Not fucking working.
Let me clarify a few things so you don’t judge me like I’m some dreg on society collecting government cheques – as if I give a fuck about being judged at this point, haha.
I’ve busted my ass over the years. I’ve done some of the most menial jobs imaginable, and I’ve also created a satisfying business of my own that sustained me for a decade and a half. I’ve played the game that society taught me to play, and I eventually learned how to earn plastic dollars in a manner that suited my lifestyle.
When I decided to give everything up to fuck off on a tropical quest with no intention of ever returning to Canada, several doors opened to me. The most important one I walked through made me aware that a safe and comfortable routine is unnecessary for financial security. Opportunities always arise if you need to pad your bank account to buy trinkets you think will enhance your life.
That’s a quote attributed to weirdo Eastern philosopher Lao Tzu, and it’s pretty fucking bang on.
You may say that quitting thinking is an impossible and impractical concept, and you might be right. But let’s consider that every issue we feel tormented by is ultimately self-inflicted, all of it an emotional by-product of thoughts generated by insecure egos, social conditioning, unsubstantiated conjecture, speculation, assumption, presumptions, and other umptions. The stress, grief, or pain is usually the result of a woe-is-me perception.
Once we stop obsessing over whatever nonsense that has us in a tizzy, the stress, grief, and pain go away. It doesn’t take much effort to prove this hypothesis. Take a deep breath, drop your thoughts, and you’ll realize a few seconds of peace. The longer you can extend this “thoughtless time,” the more relaxed you’ll become.
Synchronicity is a term that people are either gung-ho about, or vehemently reject. I suppose I should mention a third group that has no clue what the word means, so let’s start with them.
Synchronicity is a term credited to Carl Jung, and it defines a simultaneous occurrence of events that are highly significant, yet have no obvious or likely connection. “Meaningful coincidence” is a simpler way to describe it.
Pretty much everyone has a good story about a bizarre coincidence. The difference between what gets labelled a synchronicity versus a coincidence is the meaning attached to the event. For the die hard skeptic, no matter how impossibly unlikely their tale of coincidence is, they will never connect anything more to it than random chance. At the opposite end of the spectrum, the overzealous New Ager sees absolutely every mundane occurrence as reason to declare synchronous incredulity to anyone who’ll listen.
Your pages don’t exist yet, but I will create you soon so I can write this note. It’s been a strange day. I don’t know what a day is, since those don’t exist either, but let me explain what happened the best I can.
Actually, I can’t explain any of it. All I remember was suddenly being aware of everything. Not just being aware of it, being it all. I am the totality of the universe, whatever a universe is. Weird, eh?
If I was something before this, I have absolutely no recollection. Maybe I existed all along, I don’t know. The only thing definite is my awareness of the everything/nothingness I am. That, and I’m alone.
The experience has been fascinating and trippy thus far, but a major issue has come to my attention – what the fuck do I do now?
Chat soon diary, God
That was from an often ignored codex found in the Nag Hammadi library. It’s been frequently mistranslated, but, as I was learning to sail this summer, I luckily also learned how to read Coptic Egyptian.
This post goes out to the cum-guzzling, fuck-face, turd-munching, sack of shit, meth-head who stole my bike lock and battery charger. Your mother would have been far better off swallowing you than spreading her legs to allow your genetic material to replicate into the epic waste of skin you’ve become. I feel dirty and embarrassed to walk the same planet you exist on, and I feel tainted to breathe from the same atmosphere that sustains you’re worthless ass. Fuck you!
I get the lock thing – it’s a high quality, heavy-duty cable, and the combination was dialled in, so I can understand your pathetic, opportunistic, cum-covered sticky fingers for latching on to that one in a momentary fit of envy. But what the fuck are you gonna do with my battery charger? Answer me that one ball-licker!! It works exclusively in tandem with my bike battery, nothing fucking else. Do you have visions of trading it for another hit of whatever filthy, bathtub-cooked chemicals you’re currently hopped up on? Good luck there, fuckhead. Perhaps you stole it because you needed a new toy to shove up your well-stretched ass. You probably miss the notoriety from your most recent jail sentence when your boyfriend inmates gave you a gold medal for the most cocks plugged simultaneously into your sphincter. Fear not motherfucker, you’ll be back to visit your good time pals soon enough for the winter Cocksucker Olympic Games.
It’s a lot of fun to have this stupidity at my immediate disposal.
When it comes down to it, I’m pretty much just writing to myself. For the most part, no one’s reading this, and no one really cares. If anything, I’m probably offending a lot more people than I’d like to endear in my life, but that’s all part of the fun in testing the waters. Firing off a snippet here and there when I need a change of pace from writing a new book that no one will buy is always a way to get some fresh perspective.
Do I have anything relevant to say in this post?
Or maybe not.
It all comes down to relating to people.
Such is the nature of life. I’m a reclusive introvert by nature, but you wouldn’t be reading this malarky if sharing life experience meant nothing to me. Our daily adventures always have the potential to be fascinating and wondrous, but, to me, they always seem a little more real and substantial when they can be shared with someone who cares.