I like to think that at the end of it all, someone on the other side, in a mound of snow, is waiting. I do not know what I mean by the other side. I also do not know who I hope to have waiting for me. It’s more about the feeling that there is another side to this- whatever this is. And it is the comfort of knowing, that just maybe for once, someone is waiting for us there. Wherever there is. At the end though, we seemingly have to face ourselves and the faces we wore- either once or repeatedly. There may be no one waiting there to see it for us, to judge us, to liberate us.
Man is the only end to himself. He is his only ruin. We torment ourselves by living lives in fear, or fighting for things which have no real worth. At the time, it appeared to have worth, but in hindsight, there was none. When we die, we do not have the gift of hindsight. We have a grave somewhere in the world. And the spirit is left to float until such time as it enters into life again. The repeated patterns by which we live our lives are habits formed by old actions of times long gone. The victim remains the victim, the charmer remains the smooth-talking, love-making charmer, and the proud remain weakened by their arrogance. The challenge of every moment is to overcome anything we do habitually. In this way we become the greatest we could be. The greatest psychopaths are the ones who mould their patterns so well, that they are the visibility of change keeping them invisible from those who seek the patterned ways to catch and convict them. As humans, we seem to ineffaceably remain blind.
It is uncanny at all that- watching one man or one woman change endlessly to suite the time, the need, the hurt, the shifting space, the riches, the life partner, the death, yet remain exactly as they are. It is in the moments of greatest pain and suffering that we could more easily sever that which we do ritually. The games of avoidance, or the infused self infliction of torture needs to end in the moments of encumber some pain and suffering. Yet it is in these times in which we fall into the safety zone of what we know. For some, that safety zone is the endless supply of sickened, angered, heart-wrenching pain and wonderment at it all. For others, it is the falling into the next greatest thing, to numb all that was and is. In the moment of darkness, when all is driving us pertinently mad- the best form of healing is to face what IS. Take what is, and then push beyond it: look at it and acknowledge that it is horrendous or beautiful. Then, when that is done, you pick up the potato peeler and you keep doing what you had started.
But now, you liberate yourself, by changing the cyclical pattern of the years. You do the opposite. You do not torture yourself, or cling to the hope of words, or surround yourself with people you know, or fill up the gaps with something else or someone else, or talk the talk without the doing, or drill another pattern into the ground, reinforcing the exact same process from beginning to end all over again, so that you move in the same way- like a psychopath. Instead, now, you find the emptiness of not knowing anything, which is the most comforting and darkening of all things: you are able to see the light, move towards it and actually make it your own. Only when the last man puts his gun down. Only when you are no longer predictable in the wrong way- only then. Then you will know change and liberation. Until then, the mask we wear will destroy us.
The mask we adorn is the Nazi, and we are the Jew.
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