Jan. 18, 2021

Pausing Mortality at the Cost of Reality

It is so easy to allow myself to be isolated from others, to shut myself away from life’s constant ongoing and time progression. Although I have improved immensely in my ability to let myself enjoy and experience different aspects of life, I still tend to regress into stagnation, into feeling like I am not using my time correctly. This is not me being harsh on myself. I do waste a tremendous amount of time, time that could’ve been used for some sort of progression. I know that I am wasting my potential because I know that I have the potential to do or learn so much. It is even worse because I can recognize that I have had, and still do have, ample amount of opportunity. There is hardly anything in my daily life, and there is less reason as to why I continue to sit and let time pass me by.

Today I opened my window. There’s no screen, there is nothing blocking me from the outdoors. Today I breathed in the fresh air. I’m sure that some of that air is coming directly from the four plants that decorate the balcony. The noise of the outside accompanied me as I relaxed near the window. Possibly the apartment air conditioners? Sometimes voices mutter, sometimes even somewhat coherent. Sometimes the sounds of traffic or closing doors join then pass during this quiet day. A visit from a mourning dove on the railing and a black cat down below near the closed pool. I watched them, happy to see some animal life. Today my roommate and I plan on taking a walk after nightfall.

20 minutes have passed already and I have written such a small amount. Does that mean I am drawing a blank of some sort? Nah, I am just taking my time, letting the words ooze out like honey instead of flowing down like water. Though, I do seem to be at a loss for words. They’re there, they just seem to be caged, or at least the window seems to have a curtain covering the usual open pane. Suggestions are available to me, but their books are unopened, only the title and excerpt being visible.

Then again, the thought of books reminds me of my middle state, the imaginary void that accompanies my fantasies and dreams. There is where I think and dream of starting over into a life where death does not hold my soul captive, that death cannot take me away from experiencing new journeys, new lives, after extinguishing one. Ah, how the thought of death spikes, jolts my heart. A drop of fear lightly caresses my heart, enticing the emotions with the thought that there is nothing after death, that life is meaningless because a soul is nothing but a figment of hope. Mortality, the thought, the knowledge that life is finite, that life, the only thing that we know, isn’t truly a reality. The mind is all I know, all we can trust. And yet, there is no actual way of knowing that what we experience around us is true. Once we take our last breath, what we last experience…that is all we are, that is all we’ll ever be. The thought of “is this it” is why many turn to faith because of the hope faith gives that there is something more, that we all have a soul, an essence that has the ability to move on, to continue even if the host dies. This is why I wish for the ability to run away from my life, this life that I walk. I want to experience more without the fear that I will permanently mess up or that messing up is that big of a deal. If one has the ability to continue from death, it is liberating.

You know you haven’t written much if you can still see the first line after forty minutes.

Ah, night has fallen. Five to six to seven, such an interesting time of the day, the time of such transition in the sky during this time of year.

It is quiet, still. It is always still here for this pocket purgatory is separate from the ongoings of reality like time. There is no progression in the void, no sense of the ability to exist for it is out of the possible existence. Each direction is a content continuation of nothingness; and yet, I am able to stand on a supposed ground, feel and hear my feet against a solid surface. My eyes see nothing, yet touch tells me that there is a possibility of something. Another aspect is the nonexistence of light and yet there are objects visible to my eyes, that of where I belong behind me and a book of which sits upon a pedestal in front of me. This book is the reasoning for being here for such a seemingly harmless object contains the ability to send a soul into a vessel across an infinite array of worlds. The book will contain the soul to the point of that soul returning to this location once the host undergoes complete detachment of the soul in the figment universe. The mind of the soul retains all that is experienced throughout these multiple lives, living experiences aplenty that can both be either randomized or selectively picked/created. The only life that the book does not hold the soul for is the life from where the soul was designed for, of where the soul truly belongs. The void is a place of true stagnation, a place where the soul cannot move on and will not move on until with the permission of the soul. The soul may depart the self-imposed purgatory at any time to return to its true life, but that is the choice of the soul, if the soul hasn’t lost itself and can still make a decision. A continuous cycle of life can take its toll on a soul. Though some stronger than others, many have a weak point or a peak that breaks the strength it holds. True, a vessel does have an influence on the soul, but the soul contains the memories and emotions of each vessel, something that can be hard to forget and recover from. This is the true cost of the void and its book. A cost that I would be willing to take. Stagnation of the soul can be the ability to experience what one can only dream at the cost of sanity.

Written by xandraxian

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