( Understand as I do. )
Satisfaction? I do not know it, except as a mere idea of perfection.
Even when I am completing a great revelation and I believe I have come to finish a great movement within my life, it comes at a sort of exhausted relenting that I have done the best I can. That I must release myself to fall back to reality, and often, to sleep. Or else I risk stalling in flight, or plowing into mire, or simply distorting what I managed to grasp with the unmanagable infinites still beyond me.
Not the greatest book, nor the most stirring of insights, nor the quiet calmness of falling to sleep lets me be complete.
Always it is either a tantalizing glimpse of more, a hint of wider applicability or what is to come, or else a sad knowledge of the temporary.
Always things are seen as reflections connections and aspects of other things. Of sides and incomplete images of further on. Of mere words that are both absolute and imperative for the book, but also nearly meaningless compared to what they ultimately mean with knowledge of the complete library.
I am obsessed with edges and definitions. I push everywhere so as to know what is true or possible at every turn.
I do it to the world and I do it to myself.
Sometimes I am enlivened by the pure newness, sometimes I am thrown into chaos by unknowns.
I live for the different and strange. I live for the comprehension of the incomprehensible.
I drive and am pulled by it, and I subject my view and the world to that rule.
I tear myself down and live freely because of doctrines of "enough."
I learn physical limits of sleep and nourishment. I am freed by knowledge that everything is replaceable or nonessential. I am enough in myself. I imagine great accomplishments of devotion, and of immaculate balances from knowing all the "enoughs."
And for every enough, I discover potential .
I desire always to do more, to try new things, to question myself and the world, and to feel things I have never felt. I want to know truth and exile falsity.
I whip myself into a frenzy and I fall into despair, because opposite to opposite, I cannot find purity without finding impurity.
I look at myself, doing this, and think it cannot be sustainable. I think this search is too impossible, or too perfect, or too far from reality.
I am reminded of what beauty beyond belief I have enjoyed. Not merely imagined, but actually taken part in.
I cannot think these things are lies, when I have experienced them and come to them from such laws as I live by.
Is it only because I demand and discern so much, that I succumb so fully to such real divinity? Or is this maddened pursuit a clumsy effort to be refined?
Neither and both. It serves me well and gives things unattainable with other perceptions. It also is not as perfect as I had first imagined.
I was confused and now am mostly glad to know that, here too, is more for me to know. I do not like the simplistic and exaggerated self-congratulations it implies, but there is a Buddha smile lingering on some edge of this.
I refer to Ayria and to Omelas.
So;
it has been the bane of my existence to always need to do better,
but so too has it been my eternal spirit to always grow.
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