My nomadic existence has become the ritualization of that which has always been true – I do not have a home. My family failed in creating that oasis, safe haven that one seeks to return to, as did all of my own later attempts with men.
I have orphaned myself out of my own free will far beyond the initial need to jump ship from dysfunctional family roots; I have sworn off my whole culture and country. It was the best decision ever. I still wake up with pain almost every day of my life, but there is meaning. In the exploration of this pain and civilizational angst, I am allowed to burn it, see where it comes from and what part of it am I truly.
I wasn’t happy when I had comfort. This whole time, I have been seeking this nebulous mecca of ‘stability’ or ‘security’, when in fact there is none, merely illusions of it. The nature of existence is suffering, and trying to avoid it surely locks one in some comfortable stinky place in Hell, where such illusions are enjoyed.
You may be thinking you are in a packed nightclub where everybody is having so much fun, when in fact that hell is a place where everybody is sad and lonely, or it looks like a stinking county jail.
The only Family that is real is the haphazard community formed by those also pathworking hell, brothers and sisters of Black Lodge. It was the yearning to join them fully on my quest that was the source of my anguish in my previous life. It was the unanswered calling.
I know it because, oddly, some of the pain that comfortable living and success could not soothe went away after I had plunged myself into Darkness and into the Lake of Fire.
I laugh at those who think that the attainment of comfort or even material riches is the measure and the marking of illumination. Everything will be taken from us at the end, so we better start living with an acute sensation of that loss right away and seek no consolation in that which can be kept.
