The Pointlessness of it All?
I was at a bookstore, just browsing – and there was a book called “The Oracle for teenage Witches.” Fun, I thought. Picked it up. Opened to a page, any page. First thing I saw: What’s stopping you?
The words I am using now. Long have I ceased to explore the flair of words – not wishing to be drawn away. When I dissapear into the art of words – very few begin to understand, so I have stuck to simplicity mostly, with a few moments here and there that escape into poetry, then back. But now I am reconsidering. I don’t wish to forsake my romanticism. The objectivity has been adequately sustained. Which brings us to the expression of the inner voice. As I was speaking to Mihaela on the phone that day, one thing that impelled upon me was how my voice kept changing. From a masculine purr to a feminine squeal. From absolute assurance to questionable dogmatism. From humming along with the beauty of the universe – to standing apart and wondering what happened to the human. It kept fluctuating. And I thought about how the truth is always staring us in the face – and in this case, through the voice. The very fact that my voice kept changing was a sign of my spiraling around the inner voice – trying to find it – whilst at the same time, where the fuck is it but right here!
What’s stopping you? Anyone know the story of Peter Sellers, the man who had a thousand faces except for his own? There is an inert truth in his story. What does the inner voice sound like anyway? Naturalness? Deep and clear? A soft whisper? Does it have a definable sound? Can we know it by the sound of it? Sellers didn’t know his own face because every face was natural to him. All he saw was fragments of personalities within himself. He had fully recognised that there is indeed no soul. All this did was frighten him. If he would have but relaxed a little, he would have seen – and perhaps at the end of his life, he probably did. I am indeed a chameleon. Everything about me changes constantly – nothing stays the same. I remember when I first began to learn english – to truly learn it while I was in London. Then I came to Australia, and was aghast to hear the Australian accent, and made up my mind that just ain’t going to come out of my mouth. As it turns out, I was picking the way words are said in different accents… it was a natural process of just picking what I liked, until some of my words sounded British, some sounded Australian, some sounded American, some had the Indian upper class tinge. It just all fell into place, and became absolutely natural. If I’m going to speak, I thought, I might as well choose the way I speak. I will not be a prisoner to my environment, I thought. And now, I just sound like me. Even my accent sounds like me.
This made me see, in inevitability – what is the natural voice? Listen to the voice behind the voice of the heart. Behind? Behind? What does he mean by behind? This is the inner voice! And it’s been just about a year since I was told this – and I still don’t know what he means by behind. But I’m much more clear headed now. Ain’t planning on keeping this a mystery. For a while I had reasoned that if I go to singing lessons and learn absolute control over my voice – this would be a symbolic step in the right direction. Because you cannot drop all control until you have total control. That was the reasoning. But fuck that. There are better things in store.
What is stopping you? I’ve been watching. A few years ago, I had a delicious night. You know those nights under the rain and thunder, wrapped up in blankets – soothing to the intricate melody of raindrops tappering on the windowpane, the roof, the walls. Echoing off the grass, the glass. You get utterly lost in timelessness in those nights. You forget you exist. You forget everything – and are much better in the doing. I had often thought, why can’t I feel like that even when it’s not raining? So, my delicious night, was waking up suddenly to hear a song called “Take our time”, an RnB track, lulling me into a different universe – it was so encapsulating, that I put the track on repeat, fell into bed, and had one of the most profoundly blissful nights of my whole experience. There was no one else. Just me. I didn’t even move. I just lay there, in foetal position at times, and at other times, simply sprawled on the bed, lost in the song – in the lullaby of sexual essence. I felt like I was being rained upon, yet there was no rain. I never quite felt the same way about that song afterwards, and I don’t know now if it was the song – or if it was because I had created for myself, or made myself believe in the perfect moment. And because I believed, the perfect moment took place.
I am the sort of person who thinks, so why can’t I make every moment this perfect? If I am creating my reality, this must be possible. Such thoughts would have lead me into disarray if not for me seeing that there are things far more beautiful than the perfect moment. Mihaela had written about pointlessness – how she is wondering why she is bothering to do anything at all. Everything seems so… well… pointless. It was partially a reaction to what I had written. And I did not want to give her any textbook answers. Such things never help. Well, unless you say it in a way where the same old words suddenly sound new and inconcievably mysterious. Besides, I was pondering the inner voice, and all because a sweet girl had asked me to explain to her how to see the inner voice. She had asked me at the same time as me contemplating how to write about it.
I told her about my timeless experience under the rain and the song. How I have yearned to make love under the raindrops. Under starlight, under clouds, or under roof. It mattered not. She is as much a romantic, and it rekindled in her the flames of her own sexuality. Because I expressed myself utterly, partly in the desire to discover my inner voice. I spoke about how I have loved the few moments in my life where I have forgotten myself in the touch of soft skin. Those moments where nothing mattered. A day later, today, as we spoke she tells me it is about to rain – and being an empath, I could feel her feminine urge writhe my inner flame. She was willing to become lost. It wasn’t raining. But yet, to us, it rained. And we make love amidst the raindrops. Amidst the Goddess. Speaking to Mihaela, she was sharing how she had lost her desire for sex, how it seems to be as pointless as everything else. And me, I was cuddling upto my pillow. I was in timelessness. I had ceased to exist. In this moment, I was given instruction, and I followed willingly.
The whole thing fell into place like a jigsaw. I first made Mihaela aware of her sexual vitality that she had forgotten. Then I had her engage in lingam worship. All this wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t been immersed myself in a wet warmth of motherhood. Lying there without a care in the world. Yet undeniably awake. All this wouldn’t have been possible if I wasn’t one with the Goddess. And Mihaela had always spoken to me, during sex. Describing things. Describing what was happening. I asked her to forget the words. At this moment – she alligned with the Goddess, and as we reached crechendo, I mentioned the
And she saw timelessness. She forgot about pointlessness. She forgot about words. She was where I was. And I gave her the link to a Numa Numa song which a fat kid was dancing to with all his heart and joy – pure frolicking fun. And she gasped and said she once danced on the beach to this song. A timeless dance. And indeed, on that day, it was raining. I placed the final stamp on the seed. Expressing to her in words chosen with delicate care, that pointlessness is very close to the truth. It is the dark night of the soul. It is where we see that there are no points, there is no creation – that there is no distance. Because in order to have distance, you need two points. Pointlessness is right. Reality is devoid of points. Yet we mistake pointless to mean uselessness. And only when we remember the bliss of the raindrops do we see that when we are completely forgotten, is when everything becomes poignantly meaningful. And I knew, that none of what just happened, was done by me. I had surrendered to the rain – and this was the work of the raindrops.
What is stopping you? Looking everywhere for the inner voice whilst it is right here, that is what is stopping me. But simply saying it is right here just doesn’t cut it. So quit making words out of it. So, let’s end this at words. As it was begun at words. In the beginning, was the word. And the word was with God. And the word was God. I feel like there is a block between me and the words. That something could always be said better. That there is a perfect way to say something, and I do sometimes, and I don’t at other times. Is there an antidote? This is what is stopping me. Yet, I have spoken, nonetheless. And it never did rain.
– An excerpt from “The Dark Night of the Soul”