The truth can be an elusive and yet terrifying however necessary quest. Not all adventures are ones of excitement, and this one certainly is not.
It might seem completely unnecessary to some who would rather put a foot in front of the other and just repeat the work without tiredness and in perpetuity, but, what’s the sense of choosing if the mind’s dualistic nature can’t and won’t allow you to move further on pursuit of a an elusive quest which might be a lie.
How can someone betray their own sense of self, if the self is yet to be discovered? What can you believe?
When the conscious of your mind can be malleable, is the content that it holds truth, and if not, what should you believe then? Is there no pure truth?
If your mind cannot be trusted, what then? All things come from matter until you understand that there is an inherent capability in the human mind to create before matter, is it not?
Maybe the mind has a secret holly space, one where the creator hid his voice. Beneath the conscience, lies a place, the essence of truth, a place that exist through time and space, and in it, in the shape of nature and spirit, lies the elusive truth, just an introspection away.
Pure, awaits the kiss of the prince to see, or maybe is she who will wake the prince from the terrifying and disgusting quest that it is to act and be truth.
But if God could have hidden the truth there, maybe the devil could have done it too. What then?
In the beginning there was light, but it casted a great shadow. It is really hard to see when the light blinds you.
Obscurity then must be search if one wants to see light again, but even then, maybe it won’t be what we were expecting. It wont set you free. If nothing exists if not from matter, then what is it doing there? It is not a human creation, and if it is, it is not pure, is a relative truth and it exist by anyone’s will. It is not ethereal, it is not a gift from the gods, it belongs to everyone who can bend it to its will, or so we let ourselves to believe. It is easier to ignore the beast when you first found out that you too can create.
If what we have inside is corrupted, there is no instinct, nothing inside us that could help us understand. We must make of it what we can.
If Baroque was the truth, along came Rococo, and after it, a synthesis of both. Each generation forever digesting the previous content of its predecessor. None of them possessing the truth, just time and space. Is it perennial relativism the truth then?
How can you live if the quest is not real because each of you, miserable people, can make of it what you like! There is no authentic effort, no sacrifice. But that’s not truth, is it? Everybody must sacrifice, everyone must pay the price, for growing is not a mere invention. Does the space exist then?
Is there a secret truth that is everything and all the living creatures at the same time?
How can we get to know it? Does it have qualities that could help me identify it? Does it have rules of behaviour?
The obsession then is real and painful. It sees every movement, every incongruence between cognition and behaviour, it calls your name and you must abandon all vestiges of all parts of your soul.
Must I destroy myself to find it?
Depression then lies there to save me. I don’t want to look, I don’t want to see, can you make me crazy and set me free? Anger arises, I would hate for the unworthy, the ones that were never tormented with this itch, an itch I didn’t ask for and yet exists, I would hate for those souls to live alongside the essence I so long. Is it virtuous to put a foot in front of the other like a senseless machine and keep going for eternity? Is that what you want me to do? If that is in fact what you intended, you should have never given me the eyes to see the corruption of my own mind, that even when it is good it’s bad and when it tells the truth it lies.