On Being The Background

Never before has there been the need for me to become a participant in life's unfolding uber-drama. Others may need the peaks and valleys of life's dramatic events, and all the concomitant emotional baggage that goes along with it, but I am complacent with the quiet place I have molded for myself. I find an authentic resplendence in the natural flow of...well...the inexplicable. It is like a warm ointment being applied to every square inch of the body. It is silence. It is utopian.

I could berate this postmodern age for being an age of fabricated noise, informational saturation, and pandemic violence, but I choose not to. I don't want my words to be quoted. To extract my words from the solitude of pure space and plaster them across the printed page or the glittering walls of cyberspace would be an anathema to my inner code of conduct. My words would then become a facet or fixture of the foreground, and in the foreground they would die like everything else in the world of time and texture.

Now do you see why I don't want to criticize or berate this Age of Noise? I don't want to be that noise. To dwell in noise for too long is to dwell in a malaise. No! No sir! Not for me. Not for this hermit.

Seeing as I don't berate a postmodern age rife with rampant technology, disparate religions, obscure fashion trends, myriad objects, and too much coming and going, I spend my free-time, which is absolute and never-ending, playing with the inexplicable. I roam freely, talk to myself in a hushed voice, and enjoy naked existence every moment I can. Sometimes I am joined by other hermits, wizards, and magicians, but for the most part I stay by myself. In solitude I can properly enjoy the ripeness of juicy isness, or harvest my crops of non-doing. In solitude I can say to myself, "You will never die, because never before have lived apart from your death."