Walking in two worlds can be fun if you remember the roots. However.
When you are in a place of original love, all the meaningless fuss driven by hunger for extraction, and all the strange emotions that are born from humiliation, come out naked, as absolutely pathetic and out of place. And then you open your eyes, and here you are.
Extraction is suddenly redefined as the main goal of life and a measurement of success. Art, the fundamental thing whose breath makes for liberation of the spirit, healing of the spirit, and growth of the spirit, is pulled to its knees for no reason other than lack of love, and made into a liars’ servant.
A liars’ servant with or without glory. En-ter-tain-ment. Ten shots of virtual vodka to compensate for the lackluster feeling of living without the original love.
And in the midst of this extraction’n’escapism shit show, survival of love becomes a miracle, and extreme starvation of the soul becomes the norm. We are expected to carry on and extract with a proud grin while we can, and silently fade into nothingness if the little ant gets tired or disappointed.
When you are in the place of the original love, you rub your eyes looking at this strange and illogical spectacle, and you ask sincerely, are you fucking kidding me? Why in the hell? Why deal with all these things that don’t make sense and don’t generate happiness? And then you open your eyes and here you are, surrounded by other people with a free will.