Gross personal failings
Thank goodness for my gross personal failings. The realization of having fucked up so many times over this life allows for relaxation into Being. The self-images are immolated in perfect sacrificial fire. Now one can be human and relax. Now one can be a perfect asshole and relax. In the truth of fucking-up there has been the stumbling onto a goldmine. Excused from would-be sainthood, pardoned from myths of perfection, there is freedom to be.
My life has consisted so often of hurting harming and disappointing others, but that is okay. Without expectations for “goodness” there is only freedom. Without confused projections the power of reality finally shines forth and there can be meetings on equal footing, without repressed or suppressed motives and desires. Vitality returns and reality pours forth.
Without freedom there is only a constant pain of subjugation to illusory self-images. Having invested in these self-concepts for far too long all real libido was wasted, knotted up, closed off, drained away in avoidance of the necessary messiness of the alchemical processes of life. How can there be love of life when pressed onto a footpath that has zero coherence or correspondence to reality?
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