Sunday, September 26, 2010
I am beginning to understand what the Romanticist poets felt in regards to nature, that a higher understanding can be found in everything, in the molecular structure of all things belonging to our pantheistic universe. Everything is so shamelessly entangled, so helplessly erotic, so inevitably complex and essential to the harmonious ebb and flow of the universe. And yet we simplify it, mimic it with our technology, producing only two-dimensional versions. After decades of evolution we remain estranged from that which birthed us, forging a deep ravine between the inescapable connectedness of man and nature. Governments can not supply the air we breath and yet they question why people turn to the environment for thanks, question why we exchange in an intimate dialogue between nature and the Self by means of altered conscious states induced by psilocybin: natures lucid little jewel. Man's incessant need for division, for detachment, for disenchantment will be his ultimate demise. Meanwhile she (mother nature) will wait patiently at the doors of perception for him to knock so that she may open him up to the infinite.