Sleep

Cants thou not minister to a mind diseased, 

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze out the written troubles of the brain,

And with some sweet oblivious antidote 

Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff

Which weighs upon the heart?

-William Shakespeare 

I've been staring at my phone for awhile, on and off for a few weeks, maybe a month or two. Nothing but a vexing discontent glares back at me through the ephemeral wisps I catch of my reflection in the screen. It cuts my soul and appeals to the deepest slings of apathy. I clench my teeth feeling, in a word--grey. And my brow furrows. A thorn in the side is more like a saber in the mind piercing through my temples infiltrating every element of my life. And the thing is, I have a suspicion that more people can relate to my description of this thing than anyone might assume. I do not know how it can be that life can be lifeless unless there is a semantical misunderstanding, or perhaps, more fundamentally, an intuitive understanding extending beyond that of the limited definitions our biological sciences can offer us. 

And here we go. How does one write of the lurid pangs woven throughout the leagues of the living and the incurable habitation of its lowering death in the breathing mind, or about thickening darkness that so nearly corporeally reaches into the chest--about that which is constantly in a paradoxical state electrifying my thoughts and continually reminding, or perhaps, driving to the surface of my conscious awareness by some equalizing force an awesomely fair light, without giving rise to supererogatory worries by those who surround me? It is all so terrifically dispiriting. Yet, can any thoughtful person admit, when in deep reflection of life, love, the universe, and the immenseness lying covertly beneath every unassuming and passing sensation that there is no more than meets the eye or that there is no thing that is sacred?

I suppose a person can't stop the rising worries, but writing can be pursued, nonetheless, as a means of release in spite of exterior influences while the words fly upon a page to illustrate an inner reality which begs to be known outside of a world trapped between the eyes of opposite reflections. You must do what you must do while some things remain inevitable. I suppose, however, that no truly thoughtful person can be certain that there is no thing that is sacred. I suppose, again, the greater question should be whether the thoughtful believe the sacred to be strictly a subjective matter being authored by the chemically charged emotions of any who profess to have found divinity, or whether it be objective, solely permitting by way of cosmic edicts only that which is of the highest order being wrought upon our hearts? The implications of either one of these realities is of tremendous import in considering what is real in its most essential form, and truly, one that would be terribly difficult to differentiate without some sense of humility being creatures wholly subject to our own endlessly ingrained prejudices as we are. Not to mention that it would be nearly impossible to prove one way or the other, although, I'm losing some faith in the all seeing empirical eye of the scientist as by all intents and purposes many attempt to circumvent fundamental properties of existence-- namely, the oddity of human consciousness and its relationship to an exterior universe. Yes, it is acknowledged in some fields, but it is not understood to any real degree. Except I think it could be. But, I digress, and I try not to assume to know what all might think, so complex and immense the soil of sentience is and so august the soul. I am at a loss for words. 

After it all, the vastness of our lives(surely ours are vast!) and the minuteness of the very atomic structure of our being, the very rippling waves of soul, individual, and, as well, extending into the legions, are canvasses where we portrait the story of our humanity. It is the most raw story ever told in a medium so bare as to capture every trough in a flowing brook, or every subtlety in a lover's eyes, and every heartache, swelling and long forgotten all the same. It is the one where we light our existences with colors of all sorts with nothing other than our own ability to animate beautiful worlds in living color and give in those words credit to our author! How we choose to depict ourselves is in our hands with every stroke of the brush and flick of the wrist and every kind word spoken to a neighbor. Whom we choose to love and hate, whom we struggle with, with whom we wrestle for, whom we lift up and whom we tread upon all leave their mark upon our faces for better or worse. There is in our hearts, however, room for only one true guest. That of love. Yet those rooms all too often are left vacant with a stale air of disgrace generally imperceptibly forming cesspools where demons in some swirling state arise dissimulating themselves as either love itself or other elements which unnecessarily burden the mind, and to be sure, I am no stranger to the turpitude those elements beget. Ironically, I am heavy because of those empty rooms, drafty and cold. And it seems to me that if all there is in a beating heart is hallowed devotion for an eternal good that that one could fly, so light her life and inspired her mind. Truly, no thing would be out of reach.

I can admit that it's possible for the human mind to conjure up any sort of hallucination masquerading as visions from heaven, and I can admit that by no means of divine intervention lights appear in the sky and in our minds eye by virtue only of the secular kind. Yet, I cannot find it in me to admit that poetry, the scriptures, the maxims of the wise and those who speak of love, are all just fancy words dressed up to appeal to our pathos stemming from nothing more than dead matter to be. And thusly, I cannot admit that somewhere in the midst of this elaborate construct that there isn't a rare and pristine mantle to be taken up, one of which is evinced in emblazoned poems of love. It'd be one of which certainly transcends the limits of mortal endowments where words fail to elucidate but try anyway. If there should be such a mantle, taking it upon oneself would be to take up the passions and the horrors of the world, even the saber that stings my mind, for the purpose that reveals itself in the continual telling of the story--in perpetual remembrance. The story is written in words and in blood, upon paper hearts, to relieve those lurid pangs by redeeming the spirits of the broken hearted from the abyss of darkness. To do so must not only qualify, but forever instill in a being the title of Savior being a Christ--a light unto the world. 

I managed in my meager state to make it to Sacrament Meeting today. "Let your light so shine" was the theme. I sat out in the hall dressed in jeans and a hoody. And even as I sit on this entry, as I have for awhile, I contemplate whether it be light or whether it be darkness as my paths are off to one side and than another. Certainly there is a light but it beams across lengthy cavities that have been hallowed out in my chest which reverberate with the echoes of the voices of every friend I've ever wronged and every choice I've made in the throes of my grief. Those cavities go on and on, and in an attempt to lighten a burden which seems endless I elicit a description of a soul that opens up into a vast inner universe where words fly from as bats out of a cave. The expanse of the inward reality contrasted with the exterior cosmos gives rise to an incredible synthesis bubbling up and outward into this realm from thoughts and emotions as thinking minds begin to have sway upon physical matter. It is truly awesome what we as humans are made of and are capable of. We are made of dreams yet we are tangible. We are smooth yet we are tangled, we're small as mice yet we are immense, we are simple as the unobstructed emotion of love yet we are complex enough to deny it, and because of all of this, I don't think I could say that we aren't  endless, which means to me that attempting to justify that there are things out there that are incomprehensible would be to deny our eternal nature. Our completeness is in itself. The word "incomprehensible" is used by many, even those who bare elegant testimony, but it is a short sighted word, meaning, incapable of understanding, which appeals to ignorance and promotes a habitual attitude toward complacency and is resorted to only as language begins to fail. 

It may or may not be true, but it cannot be said that it isn't what it is, and the truth is as bare as our stories are in open light. The truth is woven into the fabric of the cosmos, as well, in our bones, while we remain unaware that we are the very pinnacle of cosmic creation! We are closer to heaven and nearer to the divine and higher up toward the Almighty than anyone might ever realize. And, oh, if we did realize it! How clear things would become. I can't believe that grand creatures such as ourselves as lowly as we may feel, are not capable in some end of truly understanding those eternal measures, those depths of which is said, even The Christ has descended. There is nothing that is ultimately beyond us, and it must be so, unless your recourse is to deny the amaranthine nature of the soul, which would tear me a part should I ever attempt it. We are eternally beautiful. And yet, we sleep.

The Cold Night of Winter

" ... You may not always understand every declaration of a living prophet. But when you know a prophet is a prophet, you can approach the Lord in humility and faith and ask for your own witness about whatever his prophet has proclaimed."

-President Russell M. Nelson

Below is what I wrote on the road after General Conference. 

There is light and there is darkness. This fact is true, not only of the physical world, but also of a very real spiritual one. This I cannot deny. And it is on this premise that I begin this entry. It's also here where I'd ask any reading this if they believe in spiritual light. If you believe in the spirit than I'd add that it is by no means a stretch to elicit God and subsequently attach to him in the literal sense the accolade of being the pinnacle of spiritual enlightenment. If, however, you don't hold to spiritual things, than you may not gain anything from what follows.

Here we go. For me, it is in the waters where this spiritual light shines that I strive to keep my soul anchored. Due to the tumultuous nature of life and the immense complexities that surround this world, often times I have to re-evaluate where I stand, what I believe, and who it is that I even am. I emphasize that that is not because the truth is subject to change, but because, I, by virtue of being an imperfect mortal am prone to list upon ever changing tides.

I know that there are those who believe that the leaders of the LDS church are, in some way, actively attempting to indoctrinate each successive generation of followers, possibly through the power of suggestion, exploiting neurological phenomena and/or manipulating emotional weaknesses that web through our beings as a maze through a field of corn. As simply put as possible, there are those who believe that they are  brainwashing us. 

Sometimes it is posited that they are doing this deliberately, under full conscious awareness that the doctrines and principles set forth by the LDS church are indeed false. Other times it is said that they, even those on the highest rungs of leadership, even the Prophet himself are under the spell and delusional bindings of the adversary, even Satan. 

Before I continue, I want you to understand that I know very well that often times going to church can be boring, even tedious. And I know that often times we can, in our search for light, be put down, criticized and even belittled inside the walls of the church. I, often times have found myself going to church only to take the sacrament, and then immediately leaving afterwards. I have done this because, at times I haven't particularly liked a lot of the auxiliaries, which I've often thought can morph into an exclusive VIP only club, appearing to shun those who look and act a little differently. I will add that sadly this might be inevitable. 

Though sadly it is true, the fact that it is inevitable nearly testifies of a greater truth, one that can be seen if we attempt to expand our view. I do not, in any way mean to use this as a primary argument for the truthfulness of the Gospel, for doing such would give rise to too much criticism and counter argument, of which I have thoroughly explored but see no need to outline here.

Rather though, for the purpose of understanding, I'd present the notion that should there, in an example that presents a true religion, set forth by God that isn't per se Mormonism, there still inevitably would be those who are put off by their experience with it. As well, along with those who cite convincing arguments to defame the organization. What does that say about the nature of man when confronted by truth? 

I know that there will be some who cannot disassociate the Mormon church or LDS faith from this example, and I, of course believe that it is the LDS faith which is the true church. But regardless, I only share it to illustrate the irrefutable point that things of God will always have powerful and convincing opposition. Can you argue otherwise? What needs to be resolved is how to differentiate between what the will of God is and what the will of man is. And possibly why anyone would care to look deeply into what God's will even is.

I don't intend at this time to touch upon other controversial points concerning the church, points of which I fully acknowledge, such as claims of false teachings, cover-ups, or secret histories that some have lauded criticizing the church. Those issues all require some sort of thought out and understood synthesis of mental cohesion of which I advocate thorough personal investigations done in the spirit of diligent and honest truth seeking by each individual who is apart of the church. 

These things should be looked into with a critical eye, but also more importantly a prayerful heart. These points, in every individual soul, require a personal and unique approach to allow a being to say with confidence one way or the other whether the teachings of the church are true. It must be that way otherwise no one could justify believing or denying.

Of course the leaders of the church teach from the pulpit. Of course they testify of the principles and doctrines of the Gospel of Christ as they understand it. Of course they say things that aren't perfect. Of course they are men and women with biases, preconceived notions, and engrained ideas that may not exactly be what God would have them be. And of course they want us to believe them just how you would desire your friends and family to believe you if you felt that you had something important to share. This is true of the leaders and advocates of any religion and even any organization whatsoever. 

Have you ever noticed how when you experience something that you thought was so great that you wanted to share it with others that sometimes, you, in your excitement and or possible fallible remembrance of the instance, begin to share what you know to be true, only to, either purposefully or not, exaggerate certain points, leave out other points that you don't consider worth pointing out, or simply tell your story in such a way that paints the picture as aligning perfectly with your world view. Though you had a true and real experience that you wished to share, merely in the process of sharing it through the filter of human minds, dilutes and sometimes detracts from the actual true experience. Any looking beyond the story you painted into the actual events that took place by way of examining exterior evidences would utterly find many holes in your original story, thereby rendering your original story suspect. This is called bias, and humans, divinely inspired or not are nearly permanently bound by its vice. Any story is biased, works of fiction get a free pass. It is only when something is presented as true that these faults are shouted from the rooftops! And by whom? The biased.

I set forth here and now a vivid point. It is only if there is no God, of which we have already acknowledged that there is, that they, these leaders can be considered to be brainwashing us. There being no God is the only way for them to get away with, almost unfailingly, imploring us after they testify and after they counsel us, to address an entity outside of themselves that has the capability, as the pinnacle of enlightenment, to inspire and give knowledge to those who ask. 

In short, these LDS General Authorities, being human and subject to billions of critical eyes, teach us, testify to us, desire for us to believe them, and then ask us, nay, implore us to not take their word for it! What do they do instead? They tell us to ask God in fervent prayer what is true. And it is what I did as a missionary every time I taught someone about the restoration. Pray and ask God.

Though endlessly flawed as I often feel I am, I wrestle in prayer, constantly seeking out answers to the most troubling issues that face my own soul along with those of the church and as well, the world. I cannot justify in the least disrespecting those I consider to be Prophets, Seers, and Revelators, imperfect and flawed as they are, not unlike myself.

They, being bombarded by endless criticism, repeatedly plead with us to ask God. They don't tell us to direct all inquiries to Santa, or to a psychic, or to their own self and no one else, or to the newest archeological discovery, but God, whom they, our General Authority, in their frail mortality have absolutely no power whatsoever to manipulate for a devious purpose.

You must forgive me for holding in high regard even the biased thoughts of people who ask me to address in person the Master and Commander of the Universe while thinking little of those who ask me to believe their own personal reasons of why they think those people are either outrightly wrong or simply of the devil.

You might argue that personal reasons aren't biased but reflect objective evidence. If you have read this far we have already admitted to believing in God, of who's power and magnificence we cannot at this point belittle. Consequently when compared to a good, but altogether practically blind scientific method that gropes in the dark for its own empirical truths the reality which surrounds the things of an Eternal God will obviously appear many times to run counter to the precepts set forth by man, as logical as we attempt to be. Many would inevitably see with their eyes and their wholly sin justifying souls, emphasizing, pointing out, and raising up above the mantle of God's jurisdiction points of secular interest. Evidences that appear to damn under any of the most stoutly critical eye would inevitably exist. This is not an attempt to belittle science and evidence, it is merely an attempt to point out a fact that is unavoidable should there be a God. It is only through the Spirit of this God that we can attain more sanctified understanding in spite of inevitably existing damning evidence.

I repeat, I point this out not to attempt to prove the truthfulness of the church but to illustrate a fact that even if there is a God who advocates a true religion and it isn't Mormonism, there would still be evidence to, for lack of better words, "prove" that it isn't true. All of which in this example would ultimately be due to the failings of limited science and philosophy to grasp the true implications of eternal principles being played out in the lives of short lived and short sighted mortals. Offer me something better. And explain why it's better. This might be difficult to do unless your eye is single to the Glory of God and are confident that He can manifest, through the spirit the truthfulness of all things to those who ask.

There are a million reasons why the church isn't true. I simply wonder if this isn't the case because there are a million biases in the human psyche.   

As the General Authorities, along with scripture both old and new direct, I ask you to ask God in fervent prayer. If God tells you to disregard Pre. Monson, and that the Book of Mormon is of the Devil than I cannot argue with you. All I can tell you is that, I, in my own poor lot, have received a witness that Pre. Monson is the Prophet, not only of the Church, but of the whole world, and that The Book of Mormon is in fact another testament of Jesus, the Christ. I will fight for that. We will, one of these days eventually find out who of us has been inspired by God and who, the Devil--or depressingly, if there should be none of these whatsoever. 

I would, to end this, define the word fervent. It means glowing hot. What do you think the glowing-hot-in-the- spirit to room-temperature-in-the-spirit ratio is in those who profess to seek the truth. How can anyone attempt to prove any point pertaining to actual divinity, not theology, not philosophy, but the real divine spirit of God, unless he or she is at least struggling, wrestling, or striving to be fervent, to be hot, unless altogether there is an absolute denial of the existence of God being attempted. And finally, I'd ask, how many things does a dwindling spirit justify before he is left alone absolutely desolate in the bitterly cold night of winter.

Goodnight.

Choose Life

I've been neglecting my blogs. You've noticed. It's because I haven't been able to write anything as of late that hasn't been particularly depressing in nature. I cannot express in enough detail to  anyone to what extent I have been reduced to the barest of mental fatigue. It has been a lone experience even though I am surrounded by loved ones, and, assuredly, others who struggle with similar issues.

That said, I am at a breaking point and I need to make a few choices. In the darkness I've groped for things that are tangible, things truly before me, yet I cannot dismiss the nature of the soul. Hope, faith, love, dreams, heaven and hell. These are all realities of which any feeling human cannot deny. And by virtue of the reality that they mean something beyond mere mental states to be calculated, I glean a truth that they must be shadows dancing in the silver lining of our mortal minds alluding to grander realities where angels do indeed exist, and truly not in some metaphorical fashion. 

I write everyday, and ceaselessly I justify in my obsession posting nothing for one damned reason or another. It isn't good enough, it isn't what I want, it is too long, it is pointless, it is over dramatic, it will worry people, it's self absorbed. All the while I suffocate. Like I said, I am about to break down. From my vantage point on this rippling neurological highway as I run on fumes I look up and see only two paths to go by. Those paths would be either life or death.

The thing about breathing is that it tricks people into thinking that you're still alive, when in reality the dead breath just as well as the living. The distinguishing difference is that the former has an abundance of purpose while the latter dwindles in ignominy.

I analyze both these paths. One has a force so powerful that it draws people into it so fluidly that nearly no one recognizes it before they are passed its event horizon--the point of no return. The other is the opposite. It ascends upward into a mountain giving its pleasure to only those who assert their own energy to seek it out.

Today, because I am compelled by the fiendish nature of depression, I recommit myself to life. The first time I did so years ago, but then, my commitment meant nothing more than merely not ending it. I wandered the halls in darkness as a ghost does at midnight rattling things once and awhile to help others realize that I still existed somehow. Now, I think it's time to turn the floodlights on. Let's see what can be done come the new year.

Changing tones, I'd like to wish everybody a Merry Christmas and a new year full of fulfilling resolutions. I have made several goals, and likewise contingency plans for when I begin to fade in my desire to accomplish them. These goals are meticulously designed to turn my weaknesses into strengths, to accomplish personal achievements, and they take into consideration the effects of rising from the dust, if you will, which can be many and varied.

We are inundated with choices to make every single day. But at the end of it, big or small, the choices we make promote one of two things: life or death. I'd like to encourage everyone who is reading this to choose life, and to make goals for 2016. Not just any goals, but ones that align with your deepest most heartfelt desires. And as we all know very well, too often we give up on accomplishing them, so before you lose desire, have a plan in mind to counter that inevitable darkness, because it is there. Many of us might already be in it and not even know it. But like I said, let's turn the floodlights on!

I wish the best to all of you. You've stolen my heart. You all know who you are. For me, I will be back soon, as the new year approaches. I want to document in a similar fashion as I did my 50 states trip the progress of a few of my goals. 

Now, study the ants and change the world.

My Way

Here I am again once more. Feeling somewhat defeated I write this post. I am saddened that I haven't given writing much attention since I've been home from my trip. Other matters obligate me to my death and make me forget that I've other more fulfilling things to attend to. I tell you, it was hard writing every single day, but I feel blessed to say that I did it and blessed even more that I have the record that I do. I wish to engage in a more intensive writing project, however, this one, I can't imagine will be too interesting, especially for the casual reader attempting to gain some insights into how I am doing, or perhaps even who I am. I hope to begin it tomorrow, regardless. As for tonight, I sleep and dream of what may come. 

As depressed as I naturally am, I am wholly engrossed in the challenge that lies before me. To find a way through this most harrowing life to me is the most endearing thing about it! That I could actually find and subsequently have my own way is wondrous!

A White Building

I can't focus. I'm frustrated. I'm angry. The sun has set. The valley lights turn on sections at a time. They usher in the starry night. As my thoughts joust for supremacy, one seems to sit quietly setting itself apart. Not screaming for attention it appears to, if only in my mind, coalesce into a form. Radiating silent stillness, as an immovable sureness, pervading all things it allows even its blasphemers the power to blaspheme. Certainly anyone, including myself could easily ignore its reality given the overbearing absurdities that flood over the senses, our emotions, that transpire from living.

One could easily dismiss it as a powerless anomaly in the psyche, bound to occur at random with no real purpose or sanctity--this thought. True enough, I say, such things could happen in an infinite universe, but upon my mind, eternally at play with analogy, it seems that there is only one light in this valley that actually, in its ushering, compliments the heavens in their gradually appearing grandeur, while the rest merely mimic the stars--failing.

A white building, crisp in its outline, lit from the ground up allowing the steady lines of its architecture to be accentuated, allowing features to be observed at a distance, stands unique, elegant but plain. Other lights dotting the valley floor, shining orange, yellow, and blaring white give definition to no thing, merely begging for attention in a sea of endlessly like-minded vagabonds. No exalted observer can see anything other than a blinding point, dissimilar in no meaningful way from any other.

One wonders what is behind them or where they are coming from, or where they are going, or what purpose they serve, apparently hailing from no place--no place to call home, as no lines, no architecture can be scoped. Spiritual wanderers, you could say. To be fair I suppose one wonders what is behind the walls of that accentuated Temple. Is it not God?

A red waxing crescent hangs low in the sky on the opposite end on the night, tempting the horizon, that dark, mountainous skyline to give her a kiss. It doesn't move in its stubbornness. She, ever setting, ever leaving, leans in and touches his face, and then a few moments go by and she is gone, leaving nothing behind but the rough outline of a lonely mountain, and a deep, penetrating salty view of the heavens. And then my gaze turns upward as I leave it to grieve. 

Pinpricks of light uniformly move across the arch of the earth. It's apparent should you watch long enough. These celestial points, unlike the blaring mimicking lights of the valley, have proven themselves. These lights aren't blinding and they have traversed vast regions of blackness void of anything beyond the immediate understanding of earthly minds for merely one purpose, or no purpose at all. They shine on us to be seen, to encourage a world to look up, to wonder, to think. Perhaps they do to encourage the lonely, the heartbroken, the endlessly weary, and the searchers, those rigid and lonely mountainous skylines. Or it is simply all for naught. They shine for no purpose. They, in their beauty are meaningless, thus allowing the heartbroken a justifiable avenue to coldly engage apathy with a certain kind of confidence, a confidence only gained should empathy have no power whatsoever.

To press the pursuit of knowledge with a vigor seen by those racing against the decaying strains of death, allowing, in a rational mind, no such hope which offers a grander way is to press an ultimately fruitless agenda, an agenda you couldn't even say was selfishly employed. It is all for naught. Beauty, Love. Faith, Hope. God, Sanctity. Righteousness, Sin. Happiness, Peace. The very passion one exudes while seeking out ever deeper laws of nature and of humanity are sadly imbued with a faint undertone in the relentlessly true reality that it means nothing no matter how beautiful a person is nor how inspiring her words, expounding upon the mysteries of the universe or of love, for, we will all die, and those mysteries will slink back into there cozy enclaves without a care in the world, nay, the infinities whether or not some naked ape discovered its fancies at an undistinguished point in a place indistinguishable from any other in the eternities. We will die lonely, cold, and remain there in death for no designated time at all, for time is a meaningless concept for a ceased consciousness. What is the color of the number 2? Surely it's pink, but you might argue, blue. This is apparently what we do.

A shooting star blazes and takes away my lament. I let it go into the void. I look back down and there it is, the white building silently praising heaven. The Temple. Can this be purposeless? Or can it be simply another wandering vagabond just as lost as any other. My thoughts joust for supremacy but the quiet ones shine and become apparent to the acute observers. Am I condemned for speaking, for writing in this matter. A form so foreign to the ground rules of the scientist, yet so familiar to the realities of which equally in honest reflection cannot be denied, that of the soul. Is there a science here? Yes! 

Should I end on the meaningless. Or should I depart with meaningful elegy? To which end do I choose?Either side scoring my brain. The sweet melancholy of purposelessness or the tender mercies of beauty in its grandest glory!

I wrote a poem here. It won't be displayed. Suffice it to say, I have chosen beauty. But I look upon the melancholic as a wanderer reflects upon a long lost love, reaching out in the night at times with damp eyes.