We find ourselves trapped within narrowing psychic space. The nightly irruption of dream into consciousness is what little remains of our encounter with the Nameless. And in these days, the waking have little use for dreams.
But the body is ancient; her wells run deep. Into each blooming and buzzing moment, she draws forth matter into living pattern. She draws, and is drawn together, from the cataracts of her cosmic birth, through depths the egoic mind dare not fathom. She knows nothing of names.
Human thought emerges from no shallower a source. A novel dimension of that first creative burst, thought indeed holds the power to call forth new worlds into existence. Yet by its very power it becomes entranced, encumbered by its own delusions.
We are beset from all sides by mystery. Out of fear, we seek contentment within the confines of certainty. This, of course, is an impossible dream. Nevertheless, there we enshrine our familiar categories. There we speak a calcified language that experience has outgrown. There we stagnate.
Like an anxiolytic regimen, our prejudice suppresses symptoms, and silences the deeper yearnings of a Being that still remembers Itself. But among the idols of our lexicon, the Nameless finds no purchase. We have become dull to silent wisdom.
The human need for understanding, like the very Universe from which it springs, is an expansive impulse; it carries the imagination through cosmic adventures of increasing self-awareness- and self-amazement. Every broadened horizon brings the Intuition to a new station of life-affirming wonder.
But our growth is stunted, our organs of perception stultified, as understanding is dealt its premature consolation. We no longer possess the capacity to recognize our own selves, for we hide behind the artifice of what we already expected to find.