With the wisdom (and regrets) of the hindsight, it was also a process of going deep within and accepting a possibility.
...in the end, the negation of self won...
And so the polar opposite should take over. Think. I give myself all kinds of logical reasons for acceptance of my status per se. I argue very knowledgeably, counselor like, as to what, how, why, wherefore of any person in my situation - the what-fors and whomso-fors. Everything is fine. And then I catch myself smiling or laughing or something - and I think: “the makeup on the face of a corpse” - and that’s it.
Or don’t think.
After all the logical arguments, there remain the mists, swirling endlessly and coming relentlessly. Swirling with white fingers reaching - the engulfment - the cold numbing mist, and I am waiting...
...The image was of the mist - and I was wandering in the mists, naked and alone, with a gash in my side, bleeding. I told myself, let’s see how far this goes - I went on wandering, the mist never ended and the coldness swept around me. There was also silence, no birds, no sunlight, no trees, no person. A vast emptiness and wraith-like - a wanderer - me.
And there was the corpse floating in the dark river. No whiteness, no mist, just a woman - me - floating down a large swift moving river, darkly. It was morbidly fascinating to experience, the swift current bearing me along, the swirling and swishing quiet sounds of a large body of water coursing purposefully towards some place. Hands folded on the chest, flowers on the body, red ravines... and though the speed was so swift that there was no time to see where one was, one knew that the direction is of descent, downwards... the body now upright, standing in the water, going down fast, hands straight against the sides and on the head a bundle of something - like a frame - a small transparent coffin like thing.
The descent is as endless as ever. One glimpses a flash of blue water which tempts. But I still have to go further down. I don’t know where I am, there is great depth, and I am going down deeper.
It’s frightening, but what I think is “Isis-like” - Isis, the goddess of gods - she is going down and down, bearing a small coffin on her head! Isis, that is me, going down numbly in the dark, sinking swiftly into oblivion.
You have forfeited the right to life. That is the message. Endless sinking. And no one to even see.
But much later, at a point not yet clear in my mind, the statue turned headwards and really started plummeting down, headlong now, into a large and swift moving whirlpool type of water body - rapidly turning into a tunnel. The tunnel itself turned and twisted, becoming narrower and narrower - but still wide enough for the statue to turn round and round and go faster and faster.
Birth... that is the message to which I hopelessly cling... But it does not seem to be birth... there is a bluish light at the end of the tunnel - so birth?
But as I go towards the light, the tunnel bifurcates. It just turns away into a vaguely left direction - and I pass by the light. Now it is totally dark, the tunnel is endless. And though I move swiftly, the darkness presses on my thought and makes me suffocate... claustrophobia...
Okay. I can’t bear it anymore, because there is no meaning in this movement. Death has no meaning - it has no links with the past or the future - it is the endless roaming in the mist or the hurtling though the space or eternal sinking.
...On the other hand, the goddess part of me, which is the sinking part of me, into the silent water part of me, bearing a dead part off me?
...Or the statue part of me, going through the tunnel part of me, into the timeless part of me?
It doesn’t make sense. All that make sense is that it doesn’t make sense. This is death. Of some part of me - the panicky feeling is that I am not willing to let go. The Isis bears the coffin of the little girl - the goddess in me and the dead child in me - both sinking. The only reason to let go and die is that I have no longer any right to live - I have passed over the boundary into some kind of wilderness where no one is there to love me, or need me, or even care whether I exist.
From time to time, I look into the space I have left, still not willing to go, to let go. There is the illusion of being important - something unfinished which I must work upon - which is an illusion. Because this is the eternal wilderness, nothing will take root anymore.
I don’t know. It is also the fact that I am threatened for my survival - at the same time there is a constant reminder that I do not need to survive!
On the one hand, is the freedom to let go - and on the other, the fear. Survival appears to be so mundane that there has to be a reason to live for - seeking significance, wanting to be recognized, groping for small scraps of acknowledgement and affirmations... Look at me folks, I still exist. Coupled, of course, with the fear of being rejected, fear of not being recognized, fear of not being confirmed in existance by others.
What price inner-directedness? can one actually ask for recognition? Is even digging for pity (sympathy) better than nothin? Is it necessary to survive in the way I am used to? Can I let this part of me just die - just let go and float away, take root elsewhere? Or just float?...
... Or when I say that the self exists in relation to other, is it also that sometimes the self does not exist? In spite of the others?....
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