While We Lay Dreaming

Learned some brutal truths last couple of days. I am positive that some of them were never meant to be incorporated into human existence.


Eventually I will just sit down on the ground and wait. Do nothing at all, just wait.

What I am now sacramentally bound to do is not possible by oneself, which I have understood far longer than I have been bound to this path. Then comes the awkward fact that I am losing my capacity to believe in forthcoming assistance.


That mounting loss is not a rational act, in light of this cornucopia of Grace. It could, however, be a product of prolonged isolation in a new dual-nature: The shining reassurance to be had in daily telegrams of wholly internal —and, therefore, invisible— literal context, delivered to Current Resident. (Which portends multiple non-accountabilities beyond, of course, those I layer onto my own back and heroically puke off whenever I see an opening to succeed).


Some aspect of my own creature-ness must be participating in anything this primary to Identity. So, wedged tightly in such steadily enfeebling juxtaposition, I do the only thing I can: I probe this encroaching loss-of-belief at its underbelly to discern what possible human element within me bears connection to its origin. If whatever my unconscious participation turns out to be is, in fact, actually prerequisite to the existence of so fundamental a personal erosion —complicit in the ultimate suffocation of such an explosion of supernatural Hope into this world, and especially into The Beloved— then I was from childhood promised in battle against it wherever it may be found, dedicated to a war of the kind that knows no limits and owns not a single Consequence.


Such a self-observation is brutal for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is because that particular loss-of-belief is already on its way to me. Plus, when it does arrive it will, in its own right, further isolation brutally, because such a state of affairs can only be comprehended by two sorts of people, and those two demographics are —in all Microcosms— an astronomically unlikely pool from which anybody might draw a friend: Those who in the past themselves somehow survived a netless drop of equivalent spiritual magnitude, and those who also experienced such a thing but, instead of surviving it [in the conventional metaphorical sense of that term], have since been sitting wherever they happened to land. Just sitting. Waiting.


Waiting Sitters do not read papers or carry radios. They cannot hear what is said, because nobody is willing to move in close enough to be seen in earshot. That they have not lifted their heads in a very long time is not overheard and, in that state, they will not have cared to observe it for themselves from the time their necks first felt fatigue. Once their heads have dropped, they no longer see what is around them. And what seems to me to be the most poignant fact of all is that Waiting Sitters are without a doubt fully conscious of every judgment pronounced against them, no matter the geographic distance or muting effects employed by the pundits involved. (This last fact flies in the face of the entire thesis of Pundit Possibility, and so is never factored into the whole. Instead, the Waiting Sitters' silence and occasional outburst of joy or humor is self-importantly attributed to insanity or invulnerability, and accepted without question as such in the Pundit universe of stupidity.)

If left indefinitely in human isolation as a result of socially unacceptable purity and innocence, Waiting Sitters must eventually implode into a true state of Spiritual Autism. (Spiritual Autistics On Parade, I suppose, if at that point anybody can get them up and moving.)