We Are Our Verbs
Somewhere along my surfing today some article told me that we are not what we do. But we are what we do; we are our verbs. I am thinking, waking, deciding, dancing, constantly doing, even sleeping. I am growing or decaying, living and dying, communicating silently or speaking, yelling, crying, demanding. Even in pure spiritual beatitude, I am transcendently trancing, breathing, flowing, submitting. We all are, every living being. The nouns with their adjectives merely describe. The verbs are our ever changing essence.
Is this a poem? It is a statement of truth. Or Truth. It is very real; but it is only words, marks on a virtual slate. Where is reality? Is it something we can cage and observe? Why are some stories we tell ourselves "real" and others fantasy or even lies? Is magick real, is it a valid, authentic, varifiable way of life? Can we live as on a parallel road, seeing the deadening horror of a whole stream of lived experience as a passing train on a parallel track? Can we devise alternate and wondrous transportation that takes us along a shining, winding, path of beauty and serene sanity that we know is real? How tell the mad from the merely awakening? Which is stress relieving dream; which is real?
Philosophy is the love of truth. But is it only truth because we love it into being? Can we create our own ideal truths, our own ideal lifestreams, the reality that we find most ecstatically resonant with our truest selves, by simply (or not so simply) loving it into being? What are we to make of that other reality, the one that sucks? Has it been loved into being as well? Can we safely leave it to those who love it, and wonder off their path onto our own?