(Written on January 30th, 2020)
He lived wanting
to live more.
To put the pieces together. Not just to follow the causeway,
but to seek the jutting rocks, the empty trails, the forbidden woods and take steps into them.
"What's in them? Why are they empty? Why don't we fill them?"
Often afraid to leave his main causeway, though, so fatefully built with whims of chance, fueled with delayed bursts of intention and willpower, frustrated by slow and unyielding time.
So afraid of rejection was he, he barely offered, and his potential was lost. Onto the huge leaks of fear, doubt, and resentment that worsened with each unkempt year, each unkempt thought, emotion, frustrated impulse.
The potential he carried was lost. And his being suffered while he lived, because of this. He felt relieved, grateful to leave this life of pain, fears, loneliness, resentments, and indelible stories.
May he never return. May his concept disappear from all existence, his memories, and this eulogy.
The love he found, he felt, the help he offered, was most often helpful, relevant, and it helped others smile at times. Sometimes his quick shifts befuddled others' slower friendship rhythms, who felt betrayed by his quick winds.
He strived for truth. Without and within. At times old lies and patterns moved through him unconsciously and he lied, and sometimes consciously. It was his aim, though, to simply channel the true and helpful information in all directions.
And to play. Intensely. He found much fewer partners to do this with than he wanted, and he found less intensity in them than he desired. Sexually, taking chances, seeking newness, seeking joy... he found others did not trust him or his intention. And he felt deeply hurt much of his life about this point. He offered quickly, copiously, eagerly, often in desperation, and most often it was rejected or mistrusted by others. Not always, though. And when and where it was not, beauty and friendship bloomed.
He died at ISTA. At a shamanic ritual. He died willingly, and that's how we wanted to die.
Lack of partnership brought him loneliness, desperation, frustration, resentment. Towards the end he found a true connection, as clear as one could make a murky merging river of contrasting emotions, wounds, lifestyles, experiences. Yes, truth and clarity, and support. He felt grateful for this connection. And yet, he willingly died.
Seeking relief, Nothingness.
He lived wanting
to live more.
To put the pieces together. Not just to follow the causeway,
but to seek the jutting rocks, the empty trails, the forbidden woods and take steps into them.
"What's in them? Why are they empty? Why don't we fill them?"
Often afraid to leave his main causeway, though, so fatefully built with whims of chance, fueled with delayed bursts of intention and willpower, frustrated by slow and unyielding time.
So afraid of rejection was he, he barely offered, and his potential was lost. Onto the huge leaks of fear, doubt, and resentment that worsened with each unkempt year, each unkempt thought, emotion, frustrated impulse.
The potential he carried was lost. And his being suffered while he lived, because of this. He felt relieved, grateful to leave this life of pain, fears, loneliness, resentments, and indelible stories.
May he never return. May his concept disappear from all existence, his memories, and this eulogy.
The love he found, he felt, the help he offered, was most often helpful, relevant, and it helped others smile at times. Sometimes his quick shifts befuddled others' slower friendship rhythms, who felt betrayed by his quick winds.
He strived for truth. Without and within. At times old lies and patterns moved through him unconsciously and he lied, and sometimes consciously. It was his aim, though, to simply channel the true and helpful information in all directions.
And to play. Intensely. He found much fewer partners to do this with than he wanted, and he found less intensity in them than he desired. Sexually, taking chances, seeking newness, seeking joy... he found others did not trust him or his intention. And he felt deeply hurt much of his life about this point. He offered quickly, copiously, eagerly, often in desperation, and most often it was rejected or mistrusted by others. Not always, though. And when and where it was not, beauty and friendship bloomed.
He died at ISTA. At a shamanic ritual. He died willingly, and that's how we wanted to die.
Lack of partnership brought him loneliness, desperation, frustration, resentment. Towards the end he found a true connection, as clear as one could make a murky merging river of contrasting emotions, wounds, lifestyles, experiences. Yes, truth and clarity, and support. He felt grateful for this connection. And yet, he willingly died.
Seeking relief, Nothingness.
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