i experienced what i would call radical liberation– the wild exponential flowering of possibility– when i accepted that there was nothing in this world for me. no happiness, no affinity, no satisfaction.
this liberation was not epiphanic. it's a practice, a process. it is that most holy act, refusal: rather than a single positive assertion of will, a cultivated assertion of unwillingness.
the refusal manifests as stopping pretending, ceasing to lie to myself about my prospects and (most importantly) turning my back on the infinite vanishing promise of some happier future, that grand bet against which i've already hedged a lifetime of present moments.
a hard habit, the habit of stabbing each moment in turn on the gruesome altar of future joy: tricky to kick.
Continue reading "the fertile grave"