The Labyrinth of Form

The idea that we are imprisoned in these bodies, these fragile, ephemeral containers. This idea that is so much more than an idea; we are so much more than gripped in it, so much more than merely spellbound. It is a psycho-spiritual virus, which is a stunning metaphor because it is a duplicitous, hi-jacking, self-replicating state of mind reinforced by the five physical bodily senses, and the gospel of only-what-can-be-seen-and-measured is truth.

Science itself is an abetting religion. The body’s eyes bear witness to the ubiquity and apparent irrevocability of form. The body affirms itself. The body affirms a binary myth of life and death. The body affirms time. The body affirms evolution, the rise of lower forms, another on/off state in which sentience and intelligence and thus agency is delineated by some unmeasurable gauge of soul-capacity that endows god-status only to those beings who can measure and record.

The Universe is as much a body as I, and that road-kill deer I saw this morning. But you cannot hide truth in complexity, no matter how staggering that complexity or how staggering the truth. This system we created was designed by us to lead only to ever deeper mystery. It was not built to be figured out. The search for origins, the search for meaning, some grand theory of unification, a recipe for how it all works, as if it is some kind of machine is but a vain race of measuring tools and instruments of ever-deeper delving.

We are not these bodies. We are not shape and tone of color. We are not outlines, or silhouettes, or shadows. We are not cell-bodies, or organelles, or lattice-works of proteins. We are not men. We are not women. But we are children, lost in a labyrinth of form.

All that the notions of death and evil give us is the reinforcement of vulnerability, the justification of anger and a pervasive atmosphere of fear, an ever-tightening noose of isolation and the oxygen, the fuel, to fire the illusion that I am me and you are you, and skin and bones protect us from the threat of imminent invasion. We are tiny, frightened armies besieged within the castle walls of a supreme religion of Self.


3 thoughts on “The Labyrinth of Form

  1. You have a way with words…the greatest thing is to lose yourself, that ephemeral clutching, a futile grasping for that which isn’t there, a thing that rocks us once we try…not like a baby..after and over the initial shock, and after years of contemplation, we arrive no closer than before, and yet we still may attain peace of mind, though we may not attain a self..all is well

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