We chose this life. That's what the new age prophets say. We volunteered. Eager little souls lining up for trauma. Like it's a weekend yoga retreat with extra fire, sexual predators, and no refunds.

We came to be part of the feast. Not to eat, of course, to be the toast. Golden brown, served warm, garnished with lessons, and a sprig of brutal suffering. And when it all comes down, when your head's on the block, the axeman humming softly, don't flinch. Don't scream. Just smile. And remember, you chose this. It's not your mother's fault, not your father's, not the drunk, the war, the system, not even fate. No, you picked this ride, pre-ordered the suffering, a deluxe karmic package of getting what you fucking deserve, due to you choosing it. Free spiritual growth with every heartbreak.

So when it hurts, really hurts when your body caves in under the weight of your own sobs, when you taste iron in your mouth from clenching your jaw too hard. Just whisper, "Thank you, me." Because apparently you asked for this. You asked for the death. You asked for the rape. You asked for the war, for the bombs, for the diagnosis, for the betrayal that left you dragging your soul behind you like roadkill. You asked to be broken so thoroughly that your own reflection wouldn't recognize you. Ha. But don't get mad. Don't get bitter. Don't dare question the divine order. After all, it's all you. No proof, no problem. Who needs evidence when it feels so holy to blame the victim and call it enlightenment?

Now sing it with me. You know the words. You chose this. No sympathy for you. You chose this. It's all your fault. Don't cry now. Don't look for comfort. Don't ask for justice. Don't scream. Just lie there while we walk over you in our bare feet, quote Rumi over your bones and shit on your chest in the name of love and light. You chose this. It's all down to you. Now, excuse us. We don't need your negative vibes. We choose something else. Go away. Go the fuck away.

Finding Gnosis

I don't know if any of you have ever heard of a phenomenon called the hum.

Apparently, it's a strange persistent low-frequency noise that affects a very small percentage of people. They say they can always hear it, and apparently it's not a medical condition like tinnitus—you know, that thing where you can hear a strange noise in your ear. Apparently, this is outside of the body, or so it would appear.

And anyway, so it's a kind of background noise that is always there that some people hear, and it perturbs them. It annoys them. They find it yeah, most bothersome. You know, they're lying in bed at night, they can hear the hum over the hills and far away. They're sitting on the sofa, they're at work, you know, they're sitting in a field on a summer's day in the middle of nowhere, but the hum is still there. The hum. And it made me think about people who are sensitive to the worries, the evils, the suffering, the horror, the torment of the world.

Because when you think about it, there is always someone screaming in this world. Screaming out because of torment, mental torment perhaps. Perhaps mental torment brought on by their own biology, you know, maybe they're schizophrenic or whatever. Maybe mental torment brought on by some horrific affliction they're suffering from, some terminal disease like cancer, maybe some unfortunate accident where you know they've suffered some horrifying injury that, you know, sears their nervous system with constant agony.

And then there's you know people screaming because of what is occurring to them because of Mother Nature itself in the physical realm around us. So maybe there's people screaming because of the effects of some calamity brought forth from Mother Nature herself: some earthquake, some tornado, some hurricane, you know, this type of thing, some volcanic eruption, some animal that attacks a toddler or a baby or a child or a woman or a man, some snake that bites them and causes their blood to rot inside them as they die painfully, due to not being able to get to any type of antivenom on time.

And then there's like the screams and the agonizing cries of those who are being bullied, you know, tormented by their peers, by society as they're ostracized perhaps for some reason that is not their fault. They're just a little bit different some way or other. That maybe their sexuality isn't in line with the mainstream narrative in their area. Maybe they're gay or lesbian or bisexual or whatever. And then there's also just you know, they're afflicted in some manner and they are bullied for it mercilessly.

And then, of course, there's the cries of the newborns born into this world crying out for their mothers. And sometimes those mothers never come. Sometimes those mothers are dead on the floor from a brain aneurysm and the baby's crying out, but nobody hears because nobody else is at home. And you know, some people in this world hear the hum, and some people hear the cries, the constant agony that exists in this realm.

And can you imagine if we could all hear that? If we could all hear a constant stream of cries and agony? Do you think that if everybody let out a cry when they were feeling tormented? Do you think if we could hear animals as they were being ripped apart? Do you think if we could hear that as one constant stream of sound, do you think it would be defeated by the noise of jubilation that might run alongside it as humans cheer hip hip hooray for this or that. And then you have to wonder who is cheering hip hip hooray when there is a constant stream of agony. A constant stream of agony in this cruel world. In this cruel world.

Finding Gnosis

You spend most of your life nodding along to things that if you actually stopped and felt them, you'd find intolerable. But you rarely stop. You rarely feel the full weight of the bizarre and unacceptable things that humanity and every other creature is made to endure because you can't stop. You can't bear to sit, even for a moment, with it all pressing against your flimsy little ego.

Your ego is a blood-sucking gnat, a fragile, absurd creature flitting inside your skull, doing its best to avoid reality by plunging its fangs into the world, mindlessly feeding on the blood of the oppressed and marginalized, delighting in its own hedonism, blind to everything but itself. But reality is coming for you, my friend. Reality is coming for everyone. And one day, you will be the one getting your blood sucked dry by a frenzied mob of mindless morons using your pain for their own banal, egocentric gain. And it won't matter either. It won't matter at all. And as you are in your final clutches of agony without salve, someone will be delighting in the dopamine rush they get in their supposed vocational attempt to help you. You will be to them like a slab of meat on a laboratory worktop, whereupon, in your impossible situation, they will get whatever more they can get out of you as they plunge their fangs in and go home smiling. Those who feast will be feasted upon. This is the circle of life, my dear.

Finding Gnosis

Thou art full of holes. They gape from thee. And what's inside? Nothing. Nothing to speak of that is worthwhile. One hole to stuff things in. Soft things, hot things, crisp things that crunch and turn to mush. And when thou art done chewing, thou swallowest it all down into the long, dark tunnel that windeth within. Two holes to see. But they deceive. They gaze upon the world and lie. And thy mind, poor thing, it calleth those lies truth. Two holes to hear, yet still thou listenest not. Sound goeth in, sense falleth out. And at the end, the sacred vent, the hole of holes. It bloweth foul wind. It droppeth offerings of rot. Thou pretendest it is beneath thee. Yet thou tendest it daily. Some holes are tender and secret, wrapped in layers of cloth and shame. Some are crusted, some drip, some sting when thou art ill. But they all want, they all need, they all empty. And then they beg again. Thou art a skin full of holes. And one day thou shalt be lowered into the final one, and all thy holes shall be silent. Thou art a hole within. There is nothing there. Thou fillst it with all thou canst, but still there is nothing there. And thou pretendest it is hunger or longing or love. But it is but the echo of the hole calling back to itself. Thou surroundest it with names and titles and flesh, but none stick. They slide off like water off a corpse. Thou art a vessel with no bottom, no lid. What goeth in soon leaketh out, and in the end, when all holes are closed, and the final silence taketh thee, only the emptiness shall remain, perfect, pure, at last. Thou mightest consider thyself holy, or even the whole product of a great mind. But thou art not. Thou art but a hole. And what is fitting is perhaps that thy thoughts in truth offer thee not that doth truly fill thy gaping emptiness. For if thou scratchest the surface of all thy beliefs and understanding, thou shalt see that just within lurketh a meaningless conundrum, a gap, an absence, a lack of knowing, a hole that lieth between what's above and what's below. So why thou speakest out of thy hole, metaphysically we on this earth shall never know.

Finding Gnosis

Do not be too proud. You did not choose your gifts. Do not be jealous. What seems good often turns sour. Do not be envious. All smiles in time conceal bitter truths. Do not be too mournful. You never truly knew them. Do not be too afraid. What will be will be. Do not be too sad. You are no longer there. And if you are, it cannot last. Do not be too hopeful. Hold fast to quiet, rational decorum. Do not be too angry. It is no one's fault that the universe occurred like this, with laws of nature so unsympathetic to the plight of man. Do not be too amazed. Nothing in this world is worth the sting of hearing the unsavable innocent weep. Do not be afraid to walk your own path. We are all alone in our own subjective experience anyway. Do not wear rose-tinted spectacles when looking back at the past. The world was still awful then. You just did not see it as clearly as you do now. Do not be unwilling to help somehow, even if it changes nothing in the end. An act of kindness can glaze over hell, for now at least, by providing an oasis of momentary respite in an otherwise hostile desert. Do not feel guilty if, despite your best-laid plans and intentions, all fails, as it inevitably will, you did not ask for this.

Finding Gnosis