What is that which compels me to write? It is an unknown motivation in the deepest sense. It masquerades from time to time as a "need for recognition" or "artistic expression" yet these are only the ways in which my mind interprets that which is beyong its capacity to fathom.
The only way for me to approach it is by intuition rather than intellect. Any attempts to grasp it intellectually only serves to overlay it with another conceptual projection and in doing so only adds a layer of separation. So I approach it intuitively, blindly, groping and feeling my way towards it much like a man navigating his way through darkness. I have left my knowledge at the door. I proceed unprepared, uncertain.
What is that which compels me to attempt to grasp this? Strangely enough it feels no different. What compels me to write, what compels me to understand why I write. Feeling, groping, hesitant and faltering I have no choice but to focus entirely on this landscape as it reveals itself to me moment by moment. I am aware of moving, aware of being, aware that i am aware. Yet, what is it that compels me to be aware?
Every breath in my body, every step I take forward, every thought shooting across my mind, every emotion flooding my senses is compelled. My constant recognition of my self and my own existence is compelled. What is it that compels me?
This person is no more than a passenger. It is his paranoia that givs him his sense of control. Sitting in the passenger seat, steering an imaginary wheel, pressing an imaginary accelerator, stamping an imaginary brake, he congratulates himself when the vehicle responds his way and chastises himself when it doesn't. He is a fool who has created a world based upon fear and control. And yet he doesn't know from where he came form or where he will go. In fact, he has only just appeared, but don't tell him that because he doesn't want to hear it.
How long can you trace a wave with your eyes before it disappears forever? Love is all there is. It compels and is compelled. In this moment time cannot exist. Without memory, the person is the place where sound meets silence.
The person cannot experience reality. The person can only remember it in hinsight. He is gone the moment he appears. Birth and death are instantaneous. All else is the stuff of dreams.
Relax and enjoy the ride.
