Of Delusions, Truth and Cycles

This came to me

Art by Justin Deschamps MidJourney

On the 19th of December, 2023, after I played a bit of guitar to clear my mind, I got up and had the first line of the following writing buzzing in my mind. I sat down and wrote it in my log, as I often do when I, from time to time, have these things come into my possession. The rest of the writing poured out from my hand within less then an hour after I started jotting it down.

I wouldn’t say it was “inspired” by something other than myself or that I was a mystical state of mind. I did feel a strange peace descend after what had been a rather intense few days of work. It was just interesting to me and I wanted to see the creative thought to its end. That said, I do get a sense that it has some value beyond just entertainment.

What was inspiring it? I don’t quite know. I was thinking about a bunch of things that night and it’s entirely possible that those thoughts were acting as a muse. But I will refrain from sharing that in this post because when I asked myself if I should take the time to analyze it, I got the impression that I should share it as is with as little of my own opinions as possible.

I gave it the title it present has when I was preparing this post. I’m not sure if that is the best title but I’m going to leave it there until otherwise compelled.

Of Delusions, Truth and Cycles

As the common man, a prisoner in a prison of his own making, watches the walls bear down ever closer around him, his concern is not about what to do, or who is behind this evil. His concern is about the ever increasing cost of his creature comforts that make him content despite his impending doom.

He strives not to gain freedom but to maintain his illusion. Anyone who dares pull back the mask of his obfuscation is an enemy—someone to be hated, attacked, and mocked. His friends and family, in most cases, are equally beguiled by hedonic delusions and trinkets. 

The men who do see the doom, themselves twisted by a life of self-inflicted delusion, bicker about who has the better vantage point on the ever encroaching consuming fire, glorifying themselves in secret clubs while declaring virtue publicly to their fellow knowing yet ill equipped comrades.  

There are some who do see, and know, the complete yet non-replete truth. Fewer still will have the courage and wisdom to save themselves and their families. For them the battle is against themselves, the urge to love the doomed or sacrifice the comfort of false friendship for the promise of a truly free world. 

In the end, both those who know and those who do not will survive in meager numbers. Nearly all will be forgotten in ten generations. But a handful will encode this story in words that will themselves be forgotten in the languages of time, becoming a thousand myths that guide as they shape yet more men, and a tool to control the same through blind faith and cultish comforts. 

The true seeker is born in every generation, in numbers far greater than most can account for. Only a handful escape the self-made prison of delusive companionship, and they rise above the swinging cycles by turning within, and in doing so, revealing repletely without. 

Whispering quietly in the hearts of all is the watching one, who gives the gift of knowing to any and all who truly seek the truth wherever it leads. To him that sees all, and the all, the seemingly endless repeating cycle is one ever ascending arc, a torrent scampering outwardly in escape, only, in the end, to find the beginning and the ONE at the heart and border of it all. 

Art by Justin Deschamps MidJourney