~Jottings

In proceeding to hold off all such wiseacre thoughts, I have finally conceded to hold off all endeavours and search, and have let the unexplored remain unspeakable.

Jun 2020

I have tried to go around, numerously the lamp has been turned to face the inside. Darkness can be dispelled with the same rapidness they come with. And I have arrived unto the cognizance of the veritable boredom that surrounds everything, that every act is a wheel that circles back to its origin like the Ouroboros. Thus, I have attempted to kill this idea of the "self" with the suffocation of such boredom, this existential passiveness, or more accurately, I would describe it as, "the origin of all birth and death, matters and non-matters, and nothing" shows tremendous invariance and infallibility upon the slightest observation from the human mind. This existential river of all and everything flows through each and every meridian of this existence and floods all its content, given that there is no opposite, with some sort of deathless, eternal consciousness or being that perpetuates the oneness of the universe, the inner and the outer, the existing non-existent or otherwise, and with it all the propagating nothingness of it all, as it concerns, to a relentless state of being purer than God's tears or Amida Buddha's lotus flower of the Pure land, so much indeed that the very idea of "pure" is a distortion to its purity. Such infinite nothingness is beyond the notion of its existence and possibility insofar that those descriptions of "nothingness," "emptiness" and "existential awareness of it-self" all but fail to step over the simplest boundary of depicting the state of ultimate realisation — to have a vector that points with a certain definition. But those who have reached the peak, have returned and said, without a trace of accomplishment or pride, that anything pointing to itself is an attempt at pointing at nothing, an attempt to point at everything is pointing towards itself, now would that be oneness? or have we gone on the wrong path somewhere? Neither. What would the most reverend and most honoured master of all suns say about such a truth? "Three pounds of flax," as I have heard. "Whack!" and This is the entire existence.

In which all are relating, non-relating, conceptually bound and unbound, within and beyond awareness, the mind begins to distort the truth in a thousand and one ways. The truth cannot be grasped or communicated by words. If you wish to seek it from a noble master, perhaps you should ask: "I do not ask for the words. And I do not ask for no-words." "Whack!" "Three-pounds of flax," and you just might get it.

With this all is enough. All that appears to be said has been said, and I have come to realise the nonsense and wiseacre I subjected myself to at that point of writing the following, let this not misguide you that the seeker must go on a mind of complexity and contradictions. The light can be found with the simplest turning phrase, a word, a sound... it can be realised this moment. Let nothing that has been said distract the ox dancing in his noble cape and the Siberian wolf wearing his fangs, for even a slight moment of distraction and the pure land will be lost forever, and the treasure can never be sought.

All my thoughts, desires, passions, impulses grow from one root, the mind, that which without it is impossible to occur upon. But I have come to realise that there is a watcher, an awareness that watches, simply watches, silently, from over the hills to every single stupidity or fantasy I've been subjugating myself upon thus far. The watcher is utterly silent, like a tree, a river, it is the most meditative thing that can ever be seen by the limited power of the mind. That awareness is the eye of the storm, wherewith the first freedom to truth opens. In proceeding to kill "myself", I meditated on the boredom that this very existence emits tirelessly, and has indeed "suffocated" terribly by the utter truth there is. At an instance I was able to witness the futility of all my endeavours since my birth as my memory allowed, I saw immediately the false image of the self, which when investigated in such a way it is revealed, as a conglomeration, a bouillabaisse of thoughts, emotions, passions, impulses and such... and it seemed clear to me not to assign pointless liveliness to this dead shell of the human body and the mind, of which one's entire life is likely to be depended and acted upon solely as if it is the only true medium of which one can be completely honest with representing. I have turned the cosmic wheel and have begun to understand an inkling of the real truth. As the Zen monks used to say, one realises the truth of this existence as a joke, a cosmic joke, so penetrating is this truth and so laughable is everything.

Thus, I have been inclined to the cognizing of that "truth" of which is so propounded and investigated from the ages by countless philosophers, mystics, theologians, mendicants, historians, writers, philologists, biologists, physicists, mathematicians, logicians, the modern investigators of science and the like, and the so-called religious, have been going circles around their temple of God. The celestial home that harbours all of us, without our realisation, is here, right at this moment; it is everywhere, within every single one of us. The truth is beyond time, for time itself becomes its distortion. Nothing is to be conceptualised. Nothing can be realised. Everything within this petty awareness of the human mind is a distortion. If so, then, it remains to be seen, that when everything possible and impossible are distortions to such an infinite, noble being, there should lie only one true existence, of which everything is contained; the centre of all and absolutely nothing, beyond and within all time and quality — the temple of God we've been searching for, is ridiculously the place we've been searching from within our times; and indeed it has not, will not, and never could be possibly entered, imagined, explored or conceptualised by our intellect.


Nov 2019

Games I found to infinitely enjoy more than most are those that latch the expansion of expectations, eventually overwhelming and undermining games however excellent they might be, to emphasise the neutral state to some very definite ends that ultimately appeals to the subject.

The broad purpose of delivery as I know of is satisfaction, which is first procured collectively through active engagement in an experiencing state we can call flow; then identification of these sporadic procurements is singly defined, brought forth and collected by the conscious mind to reflect a state of recurrent enjoyment or satisfaction. It then becomes essential that a gamer should not choose to expose himself to games he will not think to enjoy and thus cultivate his taste to be appealed by the most excellent of games, and be prompted likewise.


Sep 2019

It is a truth universally acknowledged to the most infinitesimal end, however a maxim tacitly recognised only by the multitude of the educated society and the pageantry of accomplished minds as the antidote of genteel ignominy, the obviation of intellectual slovenliness; wherewith inasmuch a man is in the pursuit of supreme wisdom and enlightenment of either individual or collective means would ultimately strive for that something, with a clear consciousness, within that cosmopolitan passion of video games; first to enter the mirage, then, when sufficiently he has learned, either by one's choice or consequence he may inform the shepherd that the wolf is his mirror, and the goat has ascended, the indenture is no more.