Madness makes me pick up a pen. Sanity makes me use it to write.

What are the Rituals of Entrance?

There is a desire that burns a hole in me: That which can provide the rite of passage to transcendence.

Where is that path? What are those rites?

I feel as though it were a keyhole in the thin air, always floating in front of me. Every discipline and combination moves more of the tumblers, but not all, and I emerge gasping, freshly birthed and covered with placental musings. The path is certainly every place I have ever been. My life is one long trek through the keyhole tunnel, and I could reach the end when all of the tumblers click, at any moment. My entire life as a thief, picking this lock..

I thrive on the abstract and ambiguous. I really love building odd thought-constructs just to observe them, to run simulations, or just explore odd places. I will certainly have some completely extemporaneous pieces like that

My mantra, patient whim, and attempt to reach ever deeper.

My goal is to hack creativity and imagination with language. With words alone, the world has been deeply moved. Words incite Wars, cries for Peace, can function as the master key in certain individuals to Spiritual Enlightenment, and is integral in the evolution of culture. It’s not a linear code that simply must be in the right combination (a pick-up line of the spirit, if you will), but more a conscious reordering of what you already have at your disposal.

It’s about me attempting to more consciously and deliberately find and begin speaking from that deeper part of myself; The generator of ideas, the evocative architect of my most beautiful visions.

There is certainly a Muse. It doesn’t matter if it is or is not in a literal sense. What matters is that when I make the attempt to orient my life around the central well-spring of what inspires me, I am more dynamic in what I feel enabled to do, generated ideas have a greater fluidity and potency, and I am not comfortable.

Not so, at first. I experience a “beginner’s luck”. An easy break. Things flow a bit too easily, and I am lulled into thinking that digging deep will always feel like a bungee jump. I can just let myself fall and experience a suspension of the laws of nature by degrees until it appears that my chosen medium gently and neatly cut around the edges of my psyche, pooling the smoldering mass, letting it cool, and arranging it into letters on a page.

I have already rewritten this introduction so many times. Part of my motivation is that phantasmal extra view that could probabilistically crop up: A single curling white cap that changes the whole wave-form dynamic. You readers are like my mantis eggs. My garden is large and I want to keep you here, even if I can’t see you, and have faith that if a blemish appears on a ripe fruit in view, it shall be the first and last. I’ll at last see you grown and resting on an outer fourth wall/ window pane. Maybe you’ll leave a comment, the equivalent of having the pleasure of watching you groom the fine hairs on your lethal appendages.

I cannot as of yet understand my own motivation! I have so many pursuits; far too many sensitive and established nerve endings in each organ to prune. It is a journey for me. To follow my progress is an act of faith and patience, and for me a faith that my persistence will yet yield some exotic bloom.

I will share everything. I will not lie. All emotions will be laid to bare. I will begin the synthesis of something wonderful.

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