Having answered the first and second questions, the third and last question remains: how. How do I explain the inexplicable? How do I describe the indescribable? How do I share the unsharable? This may at first glance appear to be just a superficial, craft, or logistical question, but that assumption would be far from correct. The very question about how is, in fact, the most difficult question of the three. There are several reasons for this that I believe are intrinsic to the sharing of anomalous experiences.
Having already answered the first question of should, I come to the second question regarding the sharing of anomalous experiences, which is why, and the desire behind such action. At its core, motivation here rests on three drivers: 1.) need, 2.) want, and 3.) both¹. And my exploration of such motivations in this particular case is less about establishing the correct one(s)², whether by social convention, popularity, or arbitrary standard. Behind most human decision is motive, since it is the why that drives our decisions to share or withhold. It is far easier to simply react thoughtlessly to an event, however uncanny, than it is to reason one’s own reasons for acting, and questioning the underlying drivers beneath them.
When one begins contemplating whether to share their anomalous experiences publicly, there are a number of questions it is wise to ask and answer prior to sharing. The first question is, of course, Should I? And there is no right answer to this question, as it is deeply personal and private for each person. But to those who are enthusiastic to open up and share, I strongly suggest caution and patience, for there are risks in such sharing that may not be immediately obvious, especially if blinded by the desire to reach outside of oneself in an attempt to find validation, understanding, or peace of mind.
Here I sit alone, nowhere to take my longing but an empty page, no one to hold my crashing head, filled with memories this Cosmos craves constantly to claw away — half in love with her and half with the profound conveyance of easeful Death.
For weeks I’ve been circling, collecting my courage, doubting my voice, hinting at what has been, hiding what truly is. To put into words what is most important perhaps supersedes the most cautious and sensible of thoughts, and the fears of wounding and being misunderstood. But it is an illusion to believe silence can be a shield or protection, for silence itself is a frightening invitation to self-destruction, however counterintuitive that may seem.
There are occasions when I sit down to journal, and my mind goes blank, and this is one of those moments when my head is a logjam of thoughts, memories, and a myriad of other things that have yet to be sorted, categorized, questioned, reasoned, tested, processed, and so on. I think this is the mind’s way of signaling overwhelm, and I’ll heed the warning, floating among the floundering detritus, neither pushing nor pulling.
What is love? What are its ingredients? What is its formula for success? These are questions that have inspired scholars and philosophers alike, motivating some of the greatest human creative achievements and masterpieces, from Dante to Shakespeare, from Cohen to Cave. My contribution here is only a tiny contemplation, one among an endless line of such contemplations, from the start to the end of humanity — a drop of rain in the wandering river of life.
I was perusing John French’s 1650 English translation of a text by Michael Sendivogius and found a tale of a poor alchemist who was visited once in a dream by an old man, and then spends his days trying to initiate another visit.
I find that fatigue and cynicism seem to go hand in hand. They appear as twins, showing up together when you least expect them, though their appearance isn’t necessarily surprising, but always unwelcome.
Upon rereading A place I cannot yet go, I noticed my framing through the use of the word yet. Such a small but profound word. Yet is not soon. Soon measures distance on a clock, the ticks that jump from second to second, as if time were some supreme mechanism ticking toward an appointed hour. But time is less a matter of gearworks than of celestial motion, bodies turning in relation to one another — souls intertwined despite and because of their geometry. Yet asserts not when but where, a place behind a door that only one key can open, and that key belongs to a particular hand.