Some tend to lean toward a more colourful and whimsical vocabulary when describing situations; think of things as ‘aligned’ or ’destined’ with ’signs’. It often alludes to some mysticism, and yet, is never really taken earnestly. During my solo backpacking trip across Europe, I would turn frightening hiccups and paint them over with phrases such as ‘God is giving me every hurdle on my mission’, despite being more of a realist. I cannot help but find myself collecting and sprinkling magical narratives to then have my own conscience wash away that same trail. It become a vigorous mental warfare to find the balance between painting and washing my world.
The daunting and taboo nature to mix mystics with realists, spiritualism with science; causes lots of black and white regards between the two. They are presented as clear polarities, and from my own experience, that concept has only been affirmed. The internal discourse I face has a lot to do with that both the mystics and the realists have their own rabbit hole that one can easily slip and fall into, without any way of getting out.
My adolescence was surrounded by alternative spiritual mumbo jumbo, I had my fair share of seeing what mysticism can do. I remember sitting on the floor of an incense filled room as gluten and sugar free vegan cookies were passed around. Conversation would bounce between the circle members from lucid dreaming tips to cursing the health system for their toxic vaccines. It could begin with someone complaining about the waitlist to see a doctor, and suddenly, that anger would fume and forge with signs of mystic connections in order to catapult their way into delusions. I would always sit there silent, internally disagreeing, and forced to hold hands with strangers for the ‘connection’. The only connection I remembered was my child body being squished into hugs and sucked into scents. That circle was made for me to open my mouth, and sound out baseless connection from the mundane as the rest look for my soul, and vibrated humms in response. With memories like that, you begin to fear the blend between mysticism and realism, because you see the worst; cults, conspiracy theorists, creeps.
With that being said, the realist have their own faults and flaws. Everything in life gets less colour and more numeric. I had friends that would count everything possible thing that could be counted, and never let anything pass by through chance. School hallways weren’t for recess, but calculating hours studying, hours sleeping, hours activity, amount of steps, amount of pages, amount of weight, amount of points, calories, sources, words, friends, boxes, boxes, boxes: everything tightly in their own box. Those people made me feel dull and robotic, discussing days in blocks and stats – comparing worth and in the end, becoming the one who lacks, because what would a poet be useful for. What really brought me to tears were the conversations that were spoken to solve problems, and upgrade wins as everything else is bolted shut and casted away – no exploration, no emotion, and god forbid, any human touch to the language. The same people that come with sound plans, would then turn around, and fill their insides with alcohol at the sign of any unknown; much needed work on, feelings. I often felt as if I was being parented by peers that shoved candy down their child’s throat in order to make them stop crying, and I wonder, how much better this was from the mystics…
Balancing a tight rope by keeping the peace between these two, I never really gave myself the luxury to wonder What do I believe in?. However, when I travelled, I got to sit down in a lot of churches, and although I did not face a burst of emotion or any awakening of the sort; I could understand a bit better. The allure and safety of it, to just sit and pray whilst being hugged by beliefs jewels. I got to play the part for small capsules of times in each country I visited, and when I came home; I was buzzing with wonder and mysticism. I can only hope, in the future, I will be able to make the call when to paint and when to wash.
