Once upon a time, I struck a certain unspoken deal with the world around me. I swore an oath, a covenant of sorts, to that ineffable and slippery intelligence that surrounds all things, a promise that I would devote my days to transfiguring the quotidian into the uncanny.
Mysticism— at least in my own paltry ken— is nothing more than the ability to interact and perceive the ordinary extraordinarily. To meet the dawn with a certain conviction, a resolve. To see beyond the dark sheath of daily life, past the obfuscations of routine, and glimpse the world with a fresh wonder and terror. Only at certain moments does this epiphany seem to bloom within me, the thunderous moments in which all the world sheds its skin and glows a strange glimmer once more. These flashes of awareness strike suddenly and silently, one moment you are nursing a beer, sipping a cig, and then you glance down upon your fingers, and THEN, you realize the absurdity of your condition, you rediscover awareness of your essence, of the world’s essence, and dredge up a primordial memory, a recollection of how little you understand about this spectacle flashing in front of you. This intoxicating and sublime mystery— a riddle that veils itself in glitter and flame.