Recently, a thirdself friend sent a page from a popular novel with spiritual undertones. By sharing, he was relating something he had read to something I had shared earlier. It was a dialogue between a guru and his young adherent, in which the guru was revealing the illusoriness of the world. It reminded me of many books I once read when I was searching in the world.
The image of a page from a book a close friend sent to me. After a month I finally decided to look up an excerpt, and this comes from a book called “Shantaram” which I have myself read partially.
Such books capture and deliver glimpses of a greater truth, igniting small flames of recognition deep below the mundane surface of my daily routine. I spent many years indulging those flames but began to want more than the occasional titillation. I wanted to close the gap between reading the truth on paper and living the truth in my life.
That was a difficult period. I spent my weekends drowning in fleshy pleasures and recreational substances to recover from long days of torturous study and toil. I began to dread a life robotically producing and consuming social value: long days learning how to sell my time, and nights packaging and selling myself for desirable mates and partners. I yearned for something more meaningful than a life of experiences bought and sold like commodities.
I read many books like the aforementioned, indulging in the recognition of deeper truths hidden in words. And while I drew some warmth from that small flame, I wanted much more. I wanted a practical path to a place where I could permanently fuel this fire. I looked longingly at the lives of monks and spiritualists whose conviction was so strong they could tame their worldly desires and lead lives devoted to principles of truth. I found some truth in their texts, but they all failed to convince me. The secular consumer ideologies sold on the shelves were clever, but circular, incomplete, and cheapened by marketplace capitalism. I wanted a framework so crystalline and concise, that I could apply it to every decision I made.
How do I get from small, transitory moments of recognition to a lifetime of conviction? While I never found a philosophy already written that could sustain the flame of truth within me, I believed in the magic of words. Spoken in the right order, they are incantations, inciting, inflaming, and assuring. I decided if I could not find the right words written, I would write them myself.
Ever since I have written hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of words in every conceivable combination about this truth I seek. I write until my fingers are numb, my mind is empty, and the paint on my keys chips off. I take a short break, and then I resume. I write everything that comes to mind, and when I utter a truth, I add it to a smaller but ever-growing sub-collection and continue writing. I revisit, examine, and trim this sub-collection until I eventually throw it all out and start over again.
My goal is not to write and publish a book for others. My goal is to remember and believe that I am in prison. That I awaken daily into a place I do not want to be, and my only goal is to escape. The truth I have seen in books is the light of freedom shining through the small holes in the bricks of my prison. Holes too small to crawl through, so I write to enlarge them so I can escape. Escaping is all that matters to me, and I will write until I am free.
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