We are all trying to disguise various forms of etheric heartache. Always running from one love into another, in some varying amalgamation of a wound from god. A private agony, shared by everyone. For some, it is obvious, for others- this strange void is concealed. We are all looking for those that groove into our god wound, recycling our sensitivity. Reenacting the etheric heartache. In our separateness, we weave tales of interpersonal complexes- a hostage to this spiritual wound.
Nature is the epicenter of all circulating psychic energy. It will treat your nostalgia for God. You have to get outside for at least two hours a day. Basque in cathedrals of light. Dump off emotional baggage in rural pastures. Travel by foot, become a spectator to fruitful, varied landscapes. Trudge barefoot through heavy skirts of earth. Speak to mountains, speak to mountains and listen. Nature replies, and hits you with somatic octaves of sound and color you may not fully comprehend. Let the arms of trees pluck off your psychic irritants, absorb the aromas of those that have stained you, stuck to you, without ever asking permission.
Propel yourself into the wild, and absorb it’s natural beauty. They will stick to your cells. You visit these spaces, and they are beautiful, and because they are beautiful- you will stay that way too. You are made of the same stuff.
Do away with the garments of conventionality and respectability. Reconvene with your wild.
I want to stretch myself across America, basque in the mundanity of a westbound highway. Drink big gulps and gloat in the midnumbing normalcy. Speak to hanging trees and seduce strangers. Wear flashy clothes. Get rid of the old feelings. Dump off my attachments in a casket in Texas. Watch the desert while away beneath the shade of each horizon. Cloak myself beneath red white and blue fireworks, flags and fastracks. Basque in the culture of the cultureless, revel in the glory of this prophetic monstrosity one last time, before this entire empire goes caput.