If one continues returning to the page, in reading, or writing, one has transcended the existence that imprisons. Life, reality, the experience as it keeps being defined, repeating its definitions as though they were immaculate, keeps one in a cell of one’s own making. The only way ‘out’ is to go ‘in’ and the only way to do that is through the sacred


And all words are sacred. The nature of word is to be apart, another form of existence that has no connection whatsoever with ‘real life’ anymore than a painting of nature was plucked off an apple tree. The paint is ‘not’ of life, it is a smearing of pigments upon a surface that provides the magic trick for the viewer to be fooled into thinking, ‘oh, this is a paining of that bridge over on Z street.’ And yet it has none of the water under the bridge, no cement scrapings of the bridge, none of the bolts holding it together. The bridge is the real, the painting is


But people do not tolerate mystery well. We run from it because mystery implies ‘I don’t know what this is’ and such thoughts are frightening to a human being, for the person is constantly trying to keep reality going as they have conceptualized it, and to expose oneself to mystery is to risk the entire structure of their reality to be toppled. And so we instinctively avoid anything that threatens our comfy-couch life concepts. We do not want questions, we want the money. And so, easy solution, avoid the mystery, and just go watch a movie, eat out, make love, build a skyscraper, play golf. Anything that will push mystery off the stage of my reality.

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