hopelesshappiness.com

Here are a couple of fictional tales to chill your warm bones.

I AM A GHOST

I am a ghost. She reached for me with her long, curled fingernails that in one light were spun of gold, but in another were black and oozing creamy  pus. Her slender, bony fingers were cracked and crooked like sun-baked dirt and led to lineless palms and from there to arms glistening with oily sweat; one of which was milk-white skin stretched taut over protuberant bone, and the other of which was bejeweled with numerous red, throbbing, tumescent growths, radiating the pulpous pungency of rotten fruit. A heavy gray, woolen shawl was thrown carelessly across her shoulders and draped the length of her frame, covering what appeared with movement to be a tattered but not immodest black frock of the same length. Her long yellow and blood-streaked tresses appeared to spontaneously regenerate with each clump of scalp and hair that fell with a thud at her feet. Her feet were bare. I could not see her face for the flap of skin drooping off her high and wide forehead, but I could hear her throaty laugh, so sexy, punctuated by the agonized screams of those tortured souls haphazardly tossed against the jagged rocks at the back of her throat. I call her Lica. She was beautiful. I am a ghost.

But she is not the focus of my story; she is merely a visual aid. I know I see her (and the others) as I do because I see as a ghost; I see the grotesque beauty of truth; I see a projection of my twisted fascination with forbidden reality; I breathe life into previous incarnations of myself, reanimating infantile urges, juvenile fancy, and a refined sense of the macabre; I see past the light and through the shadows, where ultimately darkness and despair take me by both hands and lead me toward the depths of nothingness... I am a ghost.

 

I have met no other ghosts. I do see the wandering, dazed, sentient beings who (I know) sense me as I and my traveling companions pass, but like the Lovely Lica, none appear to see me. Some may reach out, slow down, and gaze curiously in my direction, and nearly all of them get twitchy and more agitated in my presence, but most just quickly pass by. I am lonely because I am alone. All of the passing gentry are moving uphill in the opposite direction, and even those most-tormented somehow know not to go deeper. If there are other ghosts traveling on the decline, we must all be moving at the same pace because I cannot sense them. If I try to quicken my pace, darkness and despair slow me; and if I try to stop, the downward slope steepens, forcing me onward. This is my story and has been for a season or a century, for as you would expect I have no sense of time. I am a ghost.

But Lica... ...she has awakened something within me. She has come closer to me than any and her comeliness has caused me to stir. It is difficult to think with the weight of darkness and despair smothering and tugging as they do; but I want to think. I had said that Lica was merely a visual aid, but perhaps she is more. As I remember, she came at me from below with more purpose. She also stopped suddenly when she sensed me. Most others become anxious and jumpy, and stumble (some falling) on by. Most all appear dazed and afraid even before they sense me. What are they fleeing from? Or to? Lica was different. She stopped, turned and faced me, and reached out. I know she did not see me (or if she did, it was only for a moment) because as I was driven forward she kept facing and reaching toward the place I had been; and if she were able to see me, I believe she would have either turned to her peripheral vision or lifted the pendulous flap of skin from before her eyes. Why did she take note? What did she feel? What was she thinking? I had an impact. I am a ghost.

I spent another season moving slowly down the hill. As you may or may not know I can pretend to walk and thus feel the sensation of gravity and contact with surface textures (in this case, a grassy hill); or I can hover and float, though (at least in this case) I am still required to exert or control effort according to the direction and degree of the slope. As a ghost, this is all I have known; or, all I remember, so I am uncertain if these rules apply to all ghosts. I am uncertain that there even are other ghosts; though I doubt that I warrant such consideration as to be the 'only' ghost. I will ask. I am able to do so because it is at this point in my story, after this insufferable post-Lica season of walking, that I have come to the bottom of this hill and found him. Him is a specter, in both the sense that him is a visible apparition "neither living nor dead" (him's words), and in the sense that him is a source of terror and dread. Him is also a fount of knowledge and wisdom. Him is a gatekeeper. Him is incorporeal and ineffable. Him is the expressor of everything and the decidor of nothing. Him is the depersonification of all my earthly and deathly experience. I, am a ghost.

The hour had come - the hour beyond the season; the hour within the moment; the hour upon which all of time is built. And that hour is what I was given. Him told me that this hour at the center of everything and the beginning of nothing, would be my last hour as a ghost. Him told me that at the end of this hour I would make a choice, and that choice would determine my next incarnation. Him told me that I could ask anything I desired and he would answer. Him told me that him's answers would be true to the intent of my question; which I took to mean that if my intent were true then him's answer would be true, and if my intent were false then him's answer would be a lie. Him told me that this hour would hold me to its breast starting "now." I Am A Ghost.

Some cower in fear before Wisdom. I asked the following questions:

• Am I the only ghost?
• Is it better to have pity for - those who deserve pity, those who pity, myself, or no one?
• Who enlightens the jackal?
• Is it better to see beauty veiled, interpreted, or untrammelled?
• Will darkness and despair accompany me throughout all of my days?
• Does the earthly decor of death accurately reflect the deportment of the recently dead?
• What color is Wisdom?
• Is it better to see shadows in the dark, or is it better to see radiance in the light?
• Who will listen for the ghost drum?
• Is it better to glory in the strenuous ignominy of skeptical dissent, or is it better to be happy in the comfortable folds of labial affection?
• Will I ever see Lica again?
• Is a perpetual state of positive anticipation possible?
• Who slays the dragon?

Him answered all of my questions, but I am not allowed to disclose him's answers because it is not possible for you to know my intent, making him's answers meaningless. When I was told that at the end of this hour I would make a choice that would determine my next incarnation, I at first thought that choice would be between existence and nonexistence. I was mistaken. After absorbing him's answers I have realized that nonexistence does not exist. I am forever. I am a ghost...

...but not for long. I have stretched this last moment in this decisive hour, to its limit. I must choose "now" to either struggle back up the hill as a sentient being and return to an earthly incarnation, or remain at the bottom of the hill as a visible apparition "neither living nor dead" imparting knowledge and wisdom in the form of meaningless answers to other ghosts as they end their journey here. Lica was a ghost before choosing to return; uphill. All of the sentient beings, (formerly ghosts), that I had passed were still lost and afraid; uncertain if they had chosen wisely. I was avoided because they had made their decision, they knew what I was facing, and they did not want to be overwhelmed (again) by my traveling companions whom they could sense, making it that much easier to not see me. They wanted to reach the top without distraction and again join the multitudes that never make this journey. Perhaps Lica, in my presence, was reconsidering; or perhaps she wanted to turn me around. I had to consider all of this and weigh it against the stipulated stillness of this eternal exigency at the bottom of the hill. Uphill or downhill; the hill is just a means, and a mode. I am forever.

I choose to be forever.

I tasted oxygen today. It was equal parts eternity and vanilla, with a delicate aftertaste of dark chocolate and earth.

I. Am. Forever...

MY GREATEST FEAR

My husband had a dinner meeting and I am alone. After a bite of leftover ziti, I sit in the claw foot tub in the second floor bath with a glass of merlot on the floor at my side. I start to drift. Suddenly, I am wrenched from my doze by a rending sound of ferocious intensity. Crunching wood and porcelain  - falling - and all I can think is that the merlot will stain the brand new sofa in the drawing room below. But somehow, in mid-plunge, I catch the stem of the glass and hold it above my head, keeping it level so as not to spill a drop. I am thankful as well to hear the water from the tub and the busted pipes draining between the walls, hopefully into the basement. I prepare myself for the crash, ready to toss the wine to the side away from the davenport, when I feel a springing and a soft landing halfway between the hole in the floor/ceiling above and the first floor below. I carefully peer over the side of the tub, with the wine glass still unperturbed in my left hand, and I see the claw feet and legs of the tub poking through a web of filament so fine it can barely be seen, yet (obviously) strong enough to hold an old-fashioned porcelain claw foot tub and its young and attractive occupant. I know what you're thinking, (no, not that), and yes; this did look much like a spider's web. I confirmed as much when I searched the corners of the room and indeed spied the culprit. You would think that a spider able to construct such a web must be very large, but I was surprised; it was (even accounting for its leg span) not much larger than my Corgi. I was not sure what to do next.

I, at first hoped, that the tub would continue its plummet to take me away from the arachnid eyeing me from above, but then I remembered the wine, and the settee below; and well, being the practical sort, I decided the best thing to do in this moment was to finish my digestif. So I sipped. As I was savoring my fermented aqua vitae and gently bouncing to test the strength of the strands of web, the harvestman began his slow, ominous march forward. So here I sit, naked, jouncing in a claw foot tub, suspended above a new cream-colored chesterfield, uncertain of the intent of a certain predaceous hunter, and frantically trying to relax and enjoy my after-dinner libation. I was in quite a fix; but the wine was quite good - hints of cherry and oak, full-bodied, and dry as is my preference.

While thinking this last thought, there was a sudden rush from above and - Oh My Dear God, Nooo! I spilled some wine! And of course it sploshed directly below onto my now-discount-house couch. "Damn You Sir!" I stood in all my lascivious glory, took another sip of my wine, and threw the glass at the hated brute, willing it to somehow hit him between his eight eyes, shattering and disbursing eight well-placed shards of leaded glass that blind him, allowing my heroic escape. This is unfortunately, not what happened. The stem-end of the glass bounced off his snout and did a perfect forward one-and-a-half somersaults spraying the last bloody red droplets the length of the now-polka-dotted divan. To add insult, the crystal shattered when it hit the edge of the tub. The only thing that could be more perfect is if I suddenly found my creative fiction class at the far end of the drawing room expectantly looking up at me and patiently waiting for my story; and I have nothing prepared.

Oh yes - The sudden rush from above had been the whispering of eight hairy legs coming closer. When I stood Mr. Long-Legs did stop and after the wine glass bounced away (I didn't know this was possible, but) he looked amused. He also still looked serious. I believe he means me bodily harm. I know from morbid curiosity that many (I believe most) spiders will bite their prey, wrap it, wait for it to die, and then commence to feasting. However some spiders who are unable to kill with a venomous bite, wrap their prey in such an exorbitant amount of silk that the prey's 'legs break and eyes buckle inward' thus crushing their prey to death so they may commence to feasting. I feared that me being a human (naked, young, and attractive notwithstanding) that this latter method might be my suitor's plan. I hoped that he would get within arm's reach for a little love nibble because I was mad enough about the couch that I had confidence I could throttle him if I could reach him. But, no. I felt the first strands hit me about shoulder height, and my reaction was so violent that I threw myself out of the partial protection of the tub and found myself trying to roll around this clinging, sticky web to avoid the thready projectiles being flung my way. He changed his strategy and began to wrap my flailing legs as they must have appeared the greatest threat. Suddenly, I took in the reality of this attempted cocooning and realized that my claustrophobia may kill me before 'the legs break and the eyes buckle inward.' I could only hope; but either way I admit to the fleeting thought that to die in silk does have a certain charm.

I stopped moving for a moment to think, allowing 'old-eight-eyes' to patiently spray string, tentatively reach out with one forepaw, rotisserie me one-quarter turn, and again spray string. His patient effort gave me a thought. I would have to act quickly and anticipate correctly to pull it off; my lower legs to mid-thigh were already bound, though not yet unbearably tight or heavy. To lull him with the monotony of his task I waited 3 or 4 more rotations, and then as I was being turned from my right side to my back, I quickly reached out with both hands, tightly grabbed his foreleg, twisted and torqued, and satisfyingly heard it snap. He audibly yowled and as I had hoped lunged for my soft underbelly. Though my two hands did not reach all the way around his throat, I did manage to get a tight grip and avoid his bite. But he was still on top and regaining the advantage. I found a burst of energy. Aided by my kicking mermaid legs that were beginning to break free, I imagined wrestling my Corgi into and out of this very same bath and adroitly flipped my foe into the tub, bringing my full weight down upon him, apparently knocking the breath out of him. As he lay winded, I looked down at the tub floor (the water had of course all drained out now) and saw blood where my knee had come down on an elongated shard from my wine glass. This renewed my fury over the couch, so barely thinking, I quickly grabbed the wide end of that crimson-stained dagger, plunged it deep, and sliced that bastard from stem to stern: and even remembered to reinsert the plug into the drain. He lay still. With my arm to the elbow coated in spider goo and guts I did not wait to jump out of the tub (I knew he was dead), roll a little distance away, and strategically cut a small hole in the web just large enough for me to fit through but far enough away from the tub that the integrity of the web was (hopefully) not compromised. I dropped to the couch, adding my blood to the wine. Oh well...

I closed my eyes for a moment, congratulating myself for quick thinking and agile maneuvering. I was exhausted. I must have dozed, perhaps from shock. When I awoke I heard a terrifying rustling; then I saw it's source. All my congratulations were now seemingly for naught. It turns out that my dead friend in the tub was not a Bastard Sir; she was a Mistress Bitch.

Did you know that some mama spiders can hatch hundreds and even thousands of babies from one sac?

I do not have a unique voice; but it seems I frequently do voice a perspective that works against the grain of majority thought; or at least, majority actions and behaviors. Some weeks I tire of beating (what feels like) the same drum, but I also believe this drum of dissent must be pounded consistently to be heard. This being the case, my efforts then focus on varying the rhythms, timbre, and tempo in order to not only be heard, but also to cultivate interest. So far, after 3 plus years of weekly posts, it appears that the only consistent listener is myself.

Regardless, I have persevered and thought 'that is okay' - but because it is so, I have been thinking again this week about who I am writing for, and pondering its value. I have decided that in the moment, to write for myself does have value. Beyond this moment (for the future) I write for my children, and their children, and perhaps all generations of children to come. This is not meant to sound arrogant as I have already stated that my voice is not unique; my voice is not even my voice, but an interpretation of widespread rumblings that point us to a future of hope inspired by hopelessness. This active hope translated as written thought is simply meant to reflect my faith that we (as a global community) will evolve and come to focus on...

• ...common ground as opposed to building fences;
• ...thinking and learning as opposed to spending and earning;
• ...inner peace as opposed to political upheaval;
• ...exoteric goodness as opposed to selfish agendas;
• ...hard work as opposed to narcissistic entitlement;
• ...compassion for the oblivious as opposed to condemnation of the ignorant; and
• ...the objective freedom of communal responsibility as opposed to the comfortably restrictive chains of an intrinsic beingness.

This is a hard road. I do see a greater number of individuals beating these drums for our compassionate, spiritual advancement to keep pace with our empirical, technological advancement, but perhaps I hear more drums because I am listening for them.

Simply put, our evolutionary progress in matters of health and technology (body and mind), has far surpassed our communal effort and advancement in matters of compassion and spirituality (heart and spirit). Additionally, from a global perspective, we have yet to fully recognize how much the heart and spirit can enrich the body and mind.

I have said this before.

Many others are saying this now.

Listen to the drums...

It is all about the friction.

This week Life has been rubbing me the wrong way; its rhythms and harmonies are distant and discordant. That is my perspective. Others might say I have two left feet and my hearing is bad. This week I am battling.

Some weeks Life seems to flow; we are in step and in tune. There is still friction that ranges from soothing (like a massage) to tolerable and productive (like a visit to the chiropractor), but we are moving together.

Other weeks I allow Life to carry me. I don't fight, I go along. These weeks the friction is internal. Life becomes Pop music and I dance with myself. If this dance goes on too long, the music becomes invisible and the rhythm becomes rote.

There will always be friction.

The ultimate question is, "When the friction becomes abrasive, do we give in and go with it to reduce chafing, or do we struggle and persevere despite the discomfort?"

It is all about the friction; and how much I can stand.

These thoughts bring me to ask, "When friction presents, can we soften the irritation and still maintain its potential?" If there is no friction, there is no learning and growth, yet its potency is held in check by its tenderness.

It seems to be a question of callousness vs. sensitivity.

Is this then a question of truthfulness vs. civility?

Perhaps it is - especially within an individual.

I should be less civil and more truthful to myself than to others.

To be civil, I need permission from others to be truthful; and I need to give permission to others if I want truthfulness.

You have my permission.

I think we are back to "How much can I stand?"

No energy is destroyed due to friction.

Friction transforms energy.

Friction can do negative work, positive work, or no work.

There are many weeks when it feels that politics and its resulting bureaucracies are my greatest irritant. If we define politics as 'the volitional desire for power and control' one can see how this struggle can create unconscionable, caustic friction.

When one has power, or seeks power, or wants to control the power of others, or is involuntarily impacted by power, there is friction.

Regardless of whether power comes from conquest or persuasion, it is still power; which ultimately leads to and/or is derived from politics.

Unchecked power is a stifling, destructive friction.

Because there is no tenderness in politics, it is a force that can overwhelm; however when politics meets with opposition in the form of thoughtful / skeptical questioning, the frictional result can be inspiring.

Today it feels that we are most creative and in the flow as consumers because that is what politics requires, and we are most conventional and contained as thinkers because that is what politics desires.

If we can change direction, diverting energy from consumerism to independent thinking/learning, perhaps we can reduce chafing thereby increasing the productive potency of friction.

I am not expecting an immediate change of course, I am merely asking if we can thoughtfully create additional tributaries from which to choose; tributaries that actually flow, (beyond a trickle), with compassion, communal responsibility, inner peace, exoteric goodness, and hard work.

It is all about the friction.

Early this morning, before sunrise, my Wife was driving me across town toward work when a large black dog against the backdrop of the black asphalt appeared before the car. We missed it. About six blocks further on we approached a stop light which was green, prompting us to proceed safely through the intersection. I observed a dark blue van approach on the cross street from our left, briefly hesitate at his red light, and then pull straight on through. This time, to miss it, my Wife had to hit the brakes and come to a stop.

The sun has not even peeked out and already, two obstacles successfully dodged. Have we filled our quota for the day? Or is it going to be a particularly dodgy day?

Are the roadblocks that are set in our way random? Or is there a plan?

The reason I asked my Wife to drive me this morning in the first place is because 3 of the last 4 Tuesdays the first bus of the day has not arrived, and I wanted to avoid that potential permutation to my plans with a quiet ride in pleasant company. In so doing did I unleash a chain of events put in place to punish my last-minute modification of morning routine? Perhaps the black dog and blue van did not see us because we weren't supposed to be there. Perhaps the black and blue descriptors are portentous. Or perhaps we really weren't there; perhaps events really played out as they were originally intended and the adventurous journey across town was simply a delusion shared by my Wife and I; (or maybe not shared - I'll have to remember to ask her tonight if she remembers this). Or perhaps it is all irrelevant since we are all in the Matrix and only living vicariously through our thoughts anyway.

Is this all Balderdash and Poppycock? Or is this a Eureka Moment?

I lean towards Balderdash and Poppycock because we really don't know. In fact, in the strictest sense all we really know is that we really don't know; and if we really don't know, how can we even know that?

Though these ruminations on reality are fascinating, I have come to regard them in the same way I do thoughts of ghosts, poltergeist, and other alleged supernatural phenomena - as entertainment. Until I know, I cannot bring myself to believe. And since I really don't know much of anything, (unless I do), then all I can do is deal with what I perceive in front of me - now - in this moment; and based on my (poor) memory of previous moments, I can guide my thoughts and actions accordingly toward the next moment.

I have been here before. Is there anything new to learn from this mish-mash of honorable uncertainties, thwarted contingencies, happenstance by design, and meditative desperation? Can I glean anything from the frictional heat and dust created by these grinding contradictions? Am I just buying time with copious questions, quick-witted wordplay, and affluent alliteration? Perhaps...

... ... ... ... ...

But, (after a day to think), perhaps there is something to be found where the contradictions clash; (oops - another alliterative slip). To illustrate, think about meditative desperation - when I say "I learn from the past, to live in the moment, for the future," its contact point with 'the urgency of daily responsibilities' is 'the moment'. On the one hand we must prioritize by (often quickly) choosing the best action in a given moment because the urgency of 'now' is all we have, and on the other hand we must (1) breathe, (2) thoughtfully consider the past, and (3) calculate a desired future, which all sounds (with today's expected pace) painstaking and slow. But the contradiction does not blight or destroy the common ground found in the moment. And in this case I believe by focusing on this common ground, (and with practice), the moment will become less fleeting, thus enabling us to better balance the unavoidable urgency and the contemplative mindfulness, and perhaps enabling us to better see the unmasked face of reality.

I believe that by definition all contradictions and/or contrasting perspectives and positions must have a common ground. Even in controversial issues such as abortion (with a common ground of compassion), spirituality (with a common ground of goodness), and politics (with a common ground of communal health and advancement) we can find a point from which to proceed, as long as there is initial agreement to do no harm. Is this naive and simplistic? Perhaps so, but it is also cathartic.

Once simplified to an identifiable common ground, it immediately becomes less simplistic with numerous complications in the progression from this common ground to a mutually beneficial resolution or (if not completely resolved) evolution. For example, there will be disagreement as to what constitutes harm. Is 'a greater good' valid? Or must we consider harm to even one individual as excessive? Each contradiction / disagreement would of course have to be a different process / discussion, but each specific discussion will have some commonalities that complicate. These would include (the aforementioned) varying types and degrees of harm and what/how much (if any) harm is acceptable, parameters of indulgence for idiosyncrasies / eccentricities that do not violate the agreed-upon definition of 'do no harm', and accountability for staying within the bounds of the common ground. (There are likely more, but I believe this process and these complications will serve as an initial framework for purposes of examining the contradiction presented below.)

Last week I maintained that much of our present-day reality is unrealistic, and I presented two contradictory perspectives of manifest reality. For those who ascribe to this theory of realitivity, some may choose (at varying times in varying circumstance) to see Life as runoff pain and suffering, while others may be more adept at alleviating Life's pain and incoherence. It turns out upon close examination that the common ground between these two opposing viewpoints, is suffering. To proceed from this point is hard work, which is why some choose to lose themselves in the trivialities (some of which are urgent, but still trivial) of daily existence, and others choose to buy, create, and/or believe in an incredibly unrealistic reality.

The question that has been brought to my attention this week is, how can one who only sees (or is presently overwhelmed by) the suffering side of reality be brought to see the active hope found in Compassion, Communal Responsibility, Inner Peace, Exoteric Goodness, and Hard Work? I believe the answer begins with setting the example and debunking the delusional sense of importance placed in today's trivialities. Too many of us believe that if we don't have money, a good job, a devoted relationship, lots of good friends, and/or if we are depressed or simply not cheerful or satisfied, then there is something wrong with us and we have failed. This is not true! This is a myth propagated and perpetuated by histrionic proponents of pretentiousness. Life. Is. Suffering!

So if we agree on the principle to 'Do No Harm' and we recognize the common ground of suffering, it would appear beneficial progress to practice an active acceptance of suffering, which can be accomplished (at least in part) by acknowledging it, verbalizing it, and exhibiting other behaviors consistent with its inevitability. In some circles these behaviors may be considered odd since we have been indoctrinated into a societal belief that happiness is rightfully deserved and necessary for success. For one to discuss and actively acknowledge suffering will potentially create in others an air of condescending pity. We need to dispel these feelings and beliefs, and we must widen these parameters by being truthful - first with oneself and then (whenever possible) with others.

Accountability then comes to revolve around the aforementioned 'active acceptance of suffering' and a compassionate expectation of hard work. It seems that today we have this backwards: we expect those in obvious pain to work hard while we sweep them under the rug because they distract us from our facade of (lower-case) happiness, thus teaching others who hurt to suffer in silence. I will say it again because it is important - We must first openly and actively accept that suffering is inevitable, and only then can we (in good conscience) compassionately expect a mutually beneficial, osmotic return of effort.

We too often fail in this regard.

This week I have seen our failure.

This week my heart hurts for a young man in the South, and the hundreds of thousands like him around the world, who (at some point, this year) will only see the overwhelming nature of suffering... who will not see the active hope offered through hard work... who may only see trivialities in which they are lacking... who will never realize the impact of their departure... who will never know the Truth and Wisdom to be found in suffering...

This week my heart hurts...

Every day we are sold, we create, and we believe realities that are illogical, irrational, and incredibly unrealistic. From the narcissist who creates a world that revolves around them, to the rich who believe they deserve their wealth, to the sociopath who harms indiscriminately, to the apathetic whose numbers may not seek to harm but (regardless) they do not believe that Exoteric Goodness is worth the effort, to the customer who truly believes they should be #1, to the bureaucrat who dictates policy and procedure from their golden throne in their ivory tower, to the employee who maintains a facade sometimes to a point where they think they believe it, to the comfortable who build walls to keep suffering out of sight, to the politicians who believe they deserve their power, to the adherent who is convinced (and works at convincing others) that there exists a single overriding Truth, to the suffering who believe "If only...'THIS'... then my suffering will cease."

These are not unassailable realities.

Unassailable reality is the runoff pain of cold, hunger, fear, attrition, heat, darkness, confusion, grief, disappointment, regret, heartache, shame, exhaustion, loneliness, allergy, illness, injury, disease, excrement, blood, piss, pus, phlegm, vomit... ...a flowing, capricious cornucopia of effluvial amenities deposited courtesy of one's Humanity.

I believe there are other manifest realities. I believe they include (1) Compassion, (2) Communal Responsibility, (3) Inner Peace, (4) Exoteric Goodness, and (5) Work accomplished through the Why-Cycle; (i.e. acknowledged ignorance - to uncertainty and doubt - to skeptical questioning - re energizing one's search for Truth and Wisdom - which then cycles back to acknowledged ignorance). All five of these have been previously discussed throughout this site, with the last three (Inner Peace, Exoteric Goodness, and Work) presented (in the post Working Toward Happiness) as "structural components grounded in the empirical and arching outward toward the transcendental." I believe the same could be said for Compassion and Communal Responsibility which were discussed in later posts, most predominantly Here. Additionally, I believe when used thoughtfully and consistently, all five components will aid in alleviating the pain and incoherence of our empirical existence.

Again, there is hope found in the hopeless; there is direction given in the disjointed; there is inspiration sprung from vexation; there is a radiance to be divined from the gloom.