To begin our life’s work is to feel the deep wound of not starting that exceeds that of starting. The morphine of our dreams dissipates to strip us naked in the open air—under the mercy of our daemon’s blinding sun—the breeze beating upon us.
When all is lost, all is far away in exposed darkness—only then, our journey begins.
Once we submit to our daemon—a daemon brighter than us, better than us, bigger than us—we’re on this path for the rest of our days. Time is the protective sheet that prevents our transformation from happening at once.
We are the vessel between worlds, between humanity’s conscious unconsciousness and unconscious consciousness. To retreat from the rising tides of resistance is to coward away from our splendour.
We must travel the depth of our soul to distant lands—mysterious lands wrapped in riddles inside enigmas. Danger looms in logic, not in imagination.
With every fat thought, a thin one waging war to escape. Its determination ravishes the loins of our soul. The profound expressed through the mundane—cut and measured, digitized and virtualized—hurled to market.
Nothing pierces the heart more coldly—more coldly—than the poetic spear of zeros and ones, forever bearing the stamp of our lowly origins.
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