LETTERS 

The writer had, for some time, been wrestling with the willfulness of the unconscious mind. He didn't know what the unconscious mind was but assumed it was the entity disturbing him from time to time. At first, he felt disbelief, anxiety, and fear as he tried to pin down the conflicting attribute. He marshaled incredible energy to fight off, identify, integrate, and relate to this strange, particular will. And so when he returned into the light of day he was met by the dangers of these energies. What greater proof was there but the daily occurrences of the world about him? And, quite naturally, the pejorative, violent, ugly acts committed under the influence of this will touched a cord within the writer until he felt he was in a kind of purgatory. It brought a sense of great condemnation from the society at large. He never wanted to break the unity the mind was growing towards.

And, the writer had seen the beauty of this unity. In good conscience he could not return to a fissured view. It was as if a man from another planet drifted down to earth and viewed the earth as a physical unity clothed in pure blue and green light. The activity below the light would look grotesque. And the people would come to resemble petty, heartless, vain creatures enthrall to death. Their hierarchies, values, roles, govt., systems of exchange would appear to be a regression rather than a progression. Their beliefs would appear to be founded on very limited prejudices and fears. But even in the middle of that horror there would be an ambiguous desire for unity; the knowledge that unity is a goal in life.

Even here the writer stopped a moment. He felt there was danger in any kind of unity imposed outside the self. There had to be a unification of two distinct wills within the same individual. This, he felt, was truth. A society organized around a principle of social unity would resemble a prison. Life would become a punishment to be endured and those who endured it the best would see themselves through an inversion of light. Their endurance would be transmitted. The only unity would be terror.

Ah writer, he wrote in his private journal, be free of social desires.

He could not imagine a paradise emerging out of this plasma. But, he began to experience, little by little, life giving qualities. He had to maintain patience. He could not fear; couldn't be anxious. Be patient writer and contemplate on the infinite variety of substance contained in this will.

When the writer was in the harness writing furiously he felt to be in a state of fana. The differentiation's were swept away and became superfluous.

The intention of the writer was not to achieve a kind of vacuous freedom, devoid of all but his foolish desires. His intention was to find a degree of self-discipline that would lead to, perhaps, a possibility of freedom. Yes, there is freedom! But wouldn't it be an intellectual arrogance to believe that it has penetrated and revealed all the energies that make up freedom? Even to fathom them? Even to exhaust them? Ah, but writer, what if these energies were liberated using the horrible failures and mistakes of history as a measurement of some kind? The writer, at this point, knew that he would be burned away, whirled away into an abyss, possessed and insane, and, even dead were he to be tricked into such a path.

He was still in the process of fighting the tenacious guardians that do not allow passage.

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David Eide
July 9, 1999
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