A gypsy of the mind
taken from ANARCHY OF SPIRIT: an epistle for ridiculous times, from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book
I speak of the years of departure; the times when I left my place of welcome, to wander lonely in the void without another- to lift up and stay there, to float on the splendid confusion of disorientation, far above the thorns of context; these are the chapters of life when the soul sets out on an uncharted course, perhaps never again to remain itself- when the spirit finds again that lost fluidity, unbound nor gathered in a name, and the hard parts crumble from the eternal stream sprung free now within you. That is when the spirit relearns its passion dance, and never again to tangle in the game.
And so I existed for a great duration like a gypsy of the mind; within the infinite, boundlessness of being did I wander aimlessly from one inhospitable region to the next, never finding my home without nor within me. For the limitless Self is a strange, atopic land, seemingly indifferent to our changing whereabouts.
I sought myself so far without and within that I held no sincere hope of ever returning.
Like a camel did I drink insatiably of life before leaving, but I went too far; on the desert journey of becoming I consumed a vast portion of my rations in order to get away, but I could see no welcoming oasis. I ran blindly and without direction, charging recklessly into lostness.
Nothing, nothing, nothing, so much of nothing. To walk and walk, down empty streets, past empty houses, amongst empty people, while nothing matters except to keep walking, because to stop means to succumb to the madness, futility, and conventions which are the deaths raised under every roof where everyone hides and no one belongs but out of boredom, fear, weakness, or shame.
I became accustomed to losing everything, to dying in life, as they say, and to having no function, no responsibility, no place, nor role in life. This was the loam upon which the seed of my spirit had sprouted and taken root. There was no turning back, I had already come to that dreadful conclusion. I was outside of life, a foreigner to all that is.
There is the point when you have come undone; when eventually whatever you thought mattered no longer matters; a point when you are allowed neither god nor the world. There is a point when you are outside forever, where you are not coming back, when you can't get back.
Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.