Only a couple of years ago, I’d find myself sitting in front of the computer, munching on salt and vinegar Pringles, staring at the moving lights and listening to music, afraid of looking inside the brain which stops thinking. I was not conscious of my consciousness. The eyes made for seeing, the ears made for hearing. But my consciousness was battering itself, trying to burst out of the eggshell which contained it. I felt the ebb of the tide of pride and the flow of humility. Consciousness grew and with it, my experience changed.
My ever-expanding ball of consciousness dismissed misconceptions and allowed me to unlearn the false illusions which have been fed to me by other minds. Experience became unbound by my rejection of the reality with-out, and my embrace of the reality within. The sun still shined but the world was illumined from within. I became aware, an overman.
It’s beautiful now with her by my side as we mix the profane with the sacred. She walks half-naked across the room and turns on the light. We are joined by a deathlike experience, shocking and magnificent; transgressive. She spreads over me like a sea rising over land, covering it with saline moisture. She sweeps away every trace of dogmatic truth and takes hold of me in a meditative grasp, and the paradox hits. The profane invites the sacred, and the sacred creates the profane. Two opposing and radically different meanings become one. We mix into each other and sensations get lost. The eye made for hearing, the ear made for seeing. There is no longer any doer, there is only the deed: the spreading, the thrusting, the licentious cutting and the luscious moaning.
Experience becomes a systematic forgetting which forces me to make love with imagination rather than memory. The ball of consciousness never stops growing. It becomes clear to me now and I do not atone for that sin which presents her nakedness in a state of awakening. Why should I atone for that which brings me so close to paradise; why should I atone for that which rids me of my separateness and discontinuity, for that which brings me so close to the essence of my being, to death?
For that which they have dubbed as profane has given me a sacred sacramental experience. She was not the victim of my lust, she was my lust. I was not in love with what I desire; I was in love with who I desire. And now she is more beautiful than the world because I can hear her laugh when I close my eyes, I can see her smile when I close my ears.
The paradoxes keep on coming. Physical pleasure gave us spiritual bliss. Eroticism joined two discontinuous beings and made them one, a spirituality confessing to the boundless limits of the body when it transgresses physicality. Erotic pleasure is the proof that the body completes the soul by giving it an image; the body is the complementary of the soul, not its opposite.
The night is still, the screen is off, and the silence expresses itself, and it tells me that poetry is the sound of silence and love is its activity. My imagination stirs and feeds my experience; I find the answer to love: at first there is disgust, disgust from sex and the other sex, but then, you see her, and she makes you forget (ah the bliss of forgetting) that she is the same, she makes you aware of her being by making you unlearn, and that awareness is an unbound experience of consciousness. A desire is born within you aimed at that one person, and it is fed by your immoral imagination and uncontrollable lust of erotic pleasure and sensual oneness. The overflowing lust is love. The lust can fade, or the love can last.
The principle factor which enables and preserves such lustful love is imagination, for that girl is the same, it is only the imagination which makes her ethereal. The imagination makes her sacred. It is only imagination which deifies the one I desire. I desire God in her. I find God through eroticism.