The Buddhist
Us in its silence, the supreme serene
Aleister Crowley
Let me repeat: "not in love, or faith, or hope is hidden/The drug that heals my life" and then, "all things lawful, and all things forbidden/Alike disclose no pearl upon the midden,/Offer no key to unlock the gate of Hell." Neither in love, hope, faith nor in vice is there an ultimate salvation or damnation.
Thus an immortal soul can feel trapped in eternity, because "There is no escape from the eternal round." 
Because there is no black and white, no heaven and hell, just mixtures of grey,
of pleasure and pain in this universe. And in us, as we are the universe : "For its own horror of itself creates/Malignant fate from all benignant fates,"
because existence is made of our own spirit stuff, the snake eating its own tail, re-incarnation, eternal dying and rebirthing of only itself.
This poem made me remember how my mind expanded to encompass a very vast sense of all things, back in my college buddhist days. And as practical and secular as I feel myself to be these (medicated) days, whenever I go to add text for my posts, I seem to automatically reach back into that abyss of All, that madness, magic and horror that made life on this pane so hard. So I get convos from folks saying (and I literally quote) "I can see God in your work," when the work itself is just this tinkering fun...(... Though I do seem to reach for an evoking of some impossible thing, aesthetically, wanting a mind to reach about saying "what is that?" trying to place where a piece of my jewelry came from but never arriving at an answer. I have no choice, it's what my mind always wants to make.)
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