A great yearning brings the chase to a ravished and ravishing nothing. All the light you pursued becomes darkness on an impregnable path.
Delusion is now possible for a time, if time it is. Begat phantasm shall keep you company. If you demand satisfaction here it will fatefully curl into painful self-fulfilling prophecy. You may impale yourself on branches or flay your hide in the briar and then construe this as a victory of Self. Emptiness is opportunity to become bloated full with the visionary camouflage of envy lust hate and self-pity. It will all be underscored by self-pity for you are lost and in pain and this must be taken to prove something, to prove your self is full worthy and it was neither your fault nor your responsibility.
Alternatively emptiness may continue the chase, emptily. A kenotic no victory and no self hurrying to nowhere; this is the flamboyant subterfuge of creation.
To take responsibility without forgiveness is an equation for great anxiety. The great anxiety has certainly provided fuel for the chasing reactions, and one must be grateful for this. Our adrenalin has served. Up to this point, this sharp cutting point, the ravaged gestures of panic have served and now the trace has scribbled around a thick crown of thorn and no battle will overcome it. Angst and resisting indignation only deepens the hurt. If you struggle and insist on being a righteous identity to set an example for the world, so this increase of “you” becomes nothing. It is all wound. Can I not abandon that and let me play or at least medicate? It is all wound and this cut must flow and be nothing but flow, ceasing struggle, anxiety, identity, and thus dying. All flow is death. There, a discovery to be made over and over, a discovery that can be written about but understood only in experience: flow without source ceases. Every woeful cascade and each fountain of joy, one after the other they all pass. We often do not allow them to pass, splashing around in stagnant waters as if to simulate an ocean. Yet once they have all drained, and as each moment of turbulence subsides, there is one flow remaining. One remaining, one sustaining, one very deep current never to be disturbed by any petulant floundering; the yearning. It is an invitation to swim and an invitation to drown, both at once, and it will not invite nor can we ever refuse.
All failing and all becoming, all order and this black impasse; all is entrusted grace, the only possible ground. The ground is not ours.
One, the only ground that is trust, one is the ground that is not ours. Everything is in this field, God and of God, pasture even while we hang, ragged and knackered in some shitty scrubland by the side of the ring road, we are in God now. Imagine a secret liquor from an unknowable gland, heaven, and it has leaked into the cage. And once heaven touches the broken gestures of the caged, there can be no more cages.