The mind is a pathological liar, insisting either that things are better than they really are, or worse than they really are. Emotions, to fill the void of genuine sense-generated counter-poise or vail, are the contrivances of the mind falsely devised to embellish the lies, to intensify, to deepen, to heighten, to extend the delusion. The emotion predominant in the fallacies of the mind is fear, the response to an imagined threat, the most fundamental implement of tyranny in the subjugation of the masses.
To the extent that one trusts the mind, one renders oneself vulnerable to deception. To the extent that one’s thoughts are controlled, exploited, influenced, usurped by another, others – surrendering sensual perception to mental hegemony – one willingly submits to the self-professed authority of that other.
The mind is but a filing cabinet, password confided or stolen, accessible to all, storing the records, either fact of fiction, of past experiences, either real or imagined, easily altered, counterfeited, replaced, deleted. That filing cabinet is merely one feature, one fixture, one appliance, in an ever-changing environment. Naturally, it is not centre-stage, no spotlight upon it; shoved into a corner, rather, it is but the annoying reminder of things left undone. Life, real life, immediate life, goes on around it, sensually engaged. Moving in passion, resting in reason, only in those respites punctuating the activity of a day, any day, is there either time or attention to the task, the chore, of filing.
Deprived of sensual perception, the mind is independent of sense, and either on its own or under the charm, beguilement, or coercion of another or others, can in itself, encouraged by fear – perhaps the strongest manifestation of emotional ignorance – raise fear itself to a height, extend it to a breadth, survey it to a depth, that, if unrestrained, it overwhelms all authentic sensual response, disorienting all judgement, decision, action, movement.
When fear is intensified by pain, pain magnified by fear, submission is more swift, more thorough. Neutralise the fear, however, and use, alone, the record of past experience of the mind to locate, to envelope, and to diminish the pain merely to a source of discomfort, displeasure, and one is strengthened to the extent of endurance – granted by nature, in every creature, in its very creation – the perseverance, the invincibility, to triumph over any legitimate pain.
Belief alone determines reality, not, never, fear. You could brilliant, but you are a coward. All fear is fallacy. All fear is delusion. All fear is fatal.
Truth is seldom in the middle, seldom on the fence, seldom grey. There are no half truths. There are no white lies. If you tell white lies, you tell black lies, too. If you break the little promises, you will break the big ones, too. The mind lies. The mind is susceptible to lies. Unwilling or unable to accept the truth, disavowing the destined ordainment of that truth, the mind is comforted by lies. Only the senses may be trusted. Only the hurt that is yours to bear – by destiny, by karmic retribution, by lesson for failed trial, thwarting the trickery of the mind – will be yours to endure.
Believe only in these, your six senses – smell, taste, hearing, sight, touch, hiraeth (the longing for the place of your origin, your blood) – and fear will find no home in you, no place to fester, to foment, to fuddle.
By which of your most trifling of lies are you bound to your most vital of truths?
For truth is no historian, to touch the random scene with probability’s enchantment. She is the muse who serves herself, an eye that strays not after passing sights, an enemy not lightly brought to battle, a friend not lightly given drink, primed to the banquet’s need of company—no friend at reach of chance, or love at distance of bold lover’s legs, neared by mercurial familiarities: but in the selfless sense a sense most far, yet as one’s own, by selflessness, by covenant, of peace eventual—one sense, the words which importune, and the words which dispose.