A refuge betrayed

Where can passions which have become too violent run to? The problem here is simple. The passion has in itself broken through the world. That is the ld rules which defined a world as being have been broken through. The world is not therefore simply there. for a passion. It has so infused its domain that the power of passions have seeped into everything, warping anything. He world is not bright enough therefore to reassert its power in itself. I cannot contain the mad passion. Likewise the power of the passions is a power utterly unshared and solitary. T cannot therefore b allowed for in and through others. It is a power alone.  It will therefore over flow any or every one life. that is it overflows specific fames in which I might pitch my own existence. in doings, in becoming far too grit for the single orbit of being it threatens to overcome my individuality. How can I hold-down the web of memory and the axis of perception which stabilise into a me if a strong and stubborn a passion lingers around making some random element significant and more significant, while the rest, while everything else I am is held true.

Passion in excess pulls away from the world and pulls away from any ability I might otherwise have had to contain myself within a wider social fabric. I become doubled up or better creased up into a lonely place, where a me has collapsed or better cannot hold its own realty against the threat of a all too violent non-me, but solitary reality.

At such times passions looks to its three deep allies. That is for the three point that it must always be as an affect at. The three point of its own excess, which drives it into minds beyond every mind.

The first and foremost of these moves is the recourse to life. Passions apes live. It would always n in power and fury want to trend somehow that it was lives fault. I am naturally a predator, or a bastard: All men are … so we must forgiven them, or it is the women’s shopping brain don’t you know. The whines are endless. It comes down to the idea that live itself is doubled into the passions and held as real through them. As such it treats life as its double. That is I might engage in excess but that do doubling up have in a body and through a hormones miss lead me (don’t you know) it was not really, really, my fault(As such I was innocent. Or better I was gripped by another (plive’s0 power. I double my passion into that force beyond us all therefore – our membership of a great in species and through a species to life itself. M very body s then doubled into life. I don its clothes to sin within. That is I take (and the latter drop) the guise of life- I become an animal in rut or rage, an animal which cannot help itself, in my power an passion. Life therefore becomes the prospective wiping boy for passions. It does so more over at all levels. Tat is blame not merely the biological necessity of my life, but also prism its effect into hat train of feelings that took me from to where I am. My life I therefore want  explication of where I am. if life ad only treated my differently I would or at least light or at least could perhaps have been rather different. I do not need to be bad you see (or at least not this bad). My life is therefore an excuse for my passion. It s often the only excuse I have – the only point reach into another minds. It had then better be a good excuse.

Life becomes then the excess that can hold and even apparently allow for excess. IN other words  in the sense that it is the cause  attribute to apparently otherwise groundless excess (it was life that drove me on). It is therefore the point beyond all of us, excess can be attributed as coming from. But even for interestingly it is also the pointer or process in which I become or differentiate myself into a me. It is my life history that makes me what I am. it s therefore no wonder I tuned out so bad (or good0. If the same had happened to you, then maybe you might have been alike to me.

Life is the point beyond me, which contains me by being endlessly upstream to me. It is therefore the double tome. The point I claim I come from: the real planet of life.

And yet this very claim is problematic. To say I come from planet life, to claim these experiences have shaped my, is to make a doubled move. N the one hand I blame a life for making or driving my into what I am it is never ever under any circumstance my fault you see. On the other hand in making or deriving this move, I of course seek t blame and therefore to define life. Life becomes give to a me as my stooge. It is where and what I am and where and what I am at. Tat which ought then to be upstream and defining of a me, becomes merely or is taken as being a mere whipping boy. That is it is defined merely in terms of what I become, and what in becoming I claim for it. It becomes therefore the beaker to hold the impossible excess I blend as my glass. I has no more reality. It is not then a master (in spite of the power I claim for it) is merely the servant, or the erstwhile ‘Man’ whose power I claim infuse me, but away from a position snugly inside a self. It does not challenge that self, or make it otherwise. It merely is the place excuses are meant to come from.. But f one thinks for a jot about what such live world need to be, then it is clear the whipping boy would always conceal a real vibrant power. life would always have an ability to ooze elsewhere and beyond any of the places we mean to fix or mean to blame it. This oozing has three distinct levels.

Firstly life is likes to run beyond any point we are. It looks up into another’s Life can therefore always be already making use and reacting to and through elements truths we are not aware of. W sleep while it is endlessly doing something. Strange othernessness are therefore likely to be quietly imported into what we are ? Or again strange cunning pointers of parts of meaning, elements which cannot be forecast or understood by us alone. life therefore is nothing if it is not the ability to hook together unlikely elements at to convey or carry information that we might not have known ourselves (or as a self0, o we might have wanted suppressed. One cannot therefore simply every treat a life as mine, however much I would ape it.

Secondly life I likely to be present across every part of us. We canto there seek t blame it of one set of occasions then washing our hand of it attempt to carry on as if nothing had happened. I will be their quietly washing and waiting.  It has or is caught up with the powers in just he passions orbit hen the life must ac and act again in us at a time it sees fit. Life is genuinely and terrifyingly upstream of us. It stalks us, therefore and can always afford o wait. We might therefore invoke and blame it, but it always has rather different plans I is always pre-empting us, and a way that cannot be simply contained. Was not that after all the point?

Moreover it is impossible to keep a secret point or place from such a life hat is at has the ability to pr into our secrets which depend upon it. Our identity, that it that which attribute to ourselves alone is therefore open to and for it. We cannot assume that it is otherwise. One cannot defend ourselves from it, and certainly cannot overrun it.

To invoke a life therefore as a refuges or endless whipping boy or place to excuse oneself from is to play with fire. That life might take one very very very seriously, - why not as it if does it rips into a mind and forces itself upon it?  That is it becomes the genuine sulking power beyond individuality and genuinely contain and betraying all passions, n the mind. Life is an erstwhile ally therefore. always there for us, always betraying us. It can contain everything surely, but only does so in this one way, and if, in doing so it can use that everything to is own advantage. 

A dangerous ally indeed to invoke.

The second main pole the passionate person can flee into there habit and the powers of thee very day. That is in normality n ritual one might appear to be contained. One relate everyone else therefore pretty much as one always has done and always will. And yet there is a real problem here. Passion will not satisfy itself within this doubling into habit. It cannot destroy it  or stop it, so it will simply ignore it. Ones mind therefore sips into an outer and inner world. The outer world appears so normal and predictable. On carries on a life therefore pretty much as before. One teaches as one always did and talks as one always did no works Everyone looks one therefore and say it is fine they have survived. Normality is everywhere.

Given a chance this normality might even (without the powers of vivacity and the enforcement of actual shared reality) win out But it will take time.

All the more so because elsewhere there is of course he deeply driven inner world. This world makes always rather different claims on the unfortunate soul in its grasp. A should held in the passions. These passions will then make memory or better the endless juggling up and reckoning through of memory the real powerhouse in thinking. As I feel, as I have a passion then I am gripped in a reality all of my own  reality I cannot share and must endlessly repeat. This repetition is made in the name of pointless perfectionisms. That is in repeating I wonder when I can  do differently. But in a sense this perfectionism is merely the husk of the self. That is the self a self makes of a repletion that is force upon it by passions, that it cannot do anything about. As long as the passion is active it cannot move on (and will not want to). It therefore situates itself within events that tumble down as reality Memory is the reality to us a mind. The desire to improve or relive or do it  little differently is then merely  a point in this reality. It is the point  which I feel this reality keeps that cardinal element of actual shared reality, namely a vivacity which allows things to be different. I sort across memories reckoning then up therefore, pondering about this or that thinking how they might be different, and in doing so allow these memory (in the name of the future and the past) to be as shared reality is- a actively creative.

The overspill of passion therefore sets up an inner cod reality and ids doing so forces itself o be our mind as it demands we provide though our endless dwelling upon it, the element of freedom that actual reality has.

But of course this other shadow inner self becomes itself its won habit. To think or rethink the past is a pas in itself I come then up with fixed stories of how it might have been different as if they were memories. T then these that I rehearse as agreeable (or otherwise) little takes or stanza’s or motifs of memory. My memory becomes then at once restricted to include element that never were (but which might be) and elements which once worked out I endlessly repeat and take to be as mine And yet this latter set are then only as mine, they only become mine in their repetition. There very power then as passions demand I say and re-say them. No wonder then the inner muttering world is so mad. Or the more so as it is likely t resent to world of habit that simply ignores this inner torment - a resentment that makes it even more murderous...

The third refuge is the self. The self was always an alliance between three element. The passions which enhoused it and protected it. The self craving thoughts that fed of those passions and used them to feel their own power with and through,, and finally society. The last of these elements in a sense is clearly the most critical. It is society which defines what a good and successful self looks like. But is society which maps out the models the careers I should pour a self into. As society it therefore stabiles a series or set of thoughts into a person. It rules these ones out and these ones in. It creates therefore the point beyond every individual within which respectable souls are endlessly fashioned.

Society therefore that is the ability to create a souls that is the  recognized and valid everywhere is ultimately the whip hand in this exchange.

There becomes then a point in this life of the soul where it turns for and does not need passions. That is if it is safely ensconce within a life of its own, if it can call upon the forces of respectability and all the rages and powers of society to protect it, it then it has the rights and suites of property that society no doubt gives to it, it does not need the power of the passions. Moreover it is distinctly embarrassed by them. There role in its life was initially to protect the little selfish soul that by itself was never really powerful enough to create its own domain. How could it against the tempest of reality?

It is only then the passions which infuse it that allow it its own space, initially.

It is then the passions hat create then little spell space I can been/ My passions make me myself- they are the quiet secret I hug as my identity. And yet I is more than this. This space, once it has been created or allowed, that I once the self space I am the set of secretes has been torn form all the rest, then is free from the passions themselves More than that it will be embarrassed or even alarmed by which passions. They passions have after all the ability to drive hoe and drive through anything it might claim of its own/ Once the selfish space exists therefore it will need to look to the wider axis of society for its maintenance. This axis is not something it had a right to until it could pay the entry fee of the self soul, but once that has been created elsewhere then the powers and duties of the social norms take over the powers and privileges of passions. It needs them not.

The self therefore has a vestige interest ultimately in reject g the passions. The problem is that ht poor old passions which always worked up the self in genuinely wanting to share in its life and feeling a genuine sympathy for it (a sympathy that allowed the initially doubling up of a being into selfish passions as well as passion itself). The sympathy therefore felt for the self is a real one This rejection then come as very hard. As the self rejects (ultimately) the passions which would have created it, and does so in the name of society and in the rubric of the very  nub of passions the self itself ‘stole’ or used from the passionate mind itself (I betray you in your own name – the child says to the parent: Love gives birth to a self that rejects and must reject that love.), the passions is robbed of something it treasures: it is robbed of being the one with the special relation with the self. More than this, in losing this little point of selfishness to which it must conform it looses its final hope of an inner nature or peace. That is I was always the role of the soul or the self to stabilise the mind and holding it down it allow the storms of passions to rage around and yet ultimately blow themselves out. The selfish impregnable self was therefore the last bastion of a mind horrid in passion. If then this self also rejects such a mind, then it must despair indeed – s only a death can follow.