making it up as i go

Lately, I've been yearning to write—feeling as if there are things I really need to be writing about, while simultaneously feeling as if I have absolutely nothing to say.

This morning, it became clear why. I've been secretly entertaining the idea that there's something I still need to understand before I can do my work, while deep down knowing I can never find the understanding I seek because it does not exist. I can never find "the truth" because there is no objective truth—at least not one I'll ever grasp with my limited human mind. If there is an objective truth behind existence, it's surely meant to remain a great mystery.

The closest thing I've ever found to an objective truth is that all truths get to be true. Which means quite simply: It's all made up.

As far as subjective truths are concerned, they're only ever true for as long as you don't question them. The moment you do, you'll find evidence to the contrary—if you're willing to find it. As a contrarian, it's in my nature to dismantle and liberate. Anything I build upon imagined truths is a house of cards, blown over with the slightest breeze. These days, faster and faster.

I've known this for a long time. What I didn't realize was just how insanely committed I was to finding "the Truth." A fool's errand.

The only sane thing to do is what I haven't let myself fully do, but now feel ready for.

The only sane thing to do is untether myself from the idea that there's anything else to understand and instead anchor into the mysterious, chaotic ocean of energy at the heart of my existence.

The only sane thing to do is conjure the audacity to make believe and let it be real, even though I know I'm just making it up.

The only sane thing to do is channel the oceanic power at my fingertips into the endeavor of making games of pretend manifest.

The only sane thing for me to do is decide that my life is for me to make up.

I must decide upon my place in the universe. I must decide upon my supernatural inheritance. I must decide that I am supported from above and from below; from the north, south, east, and west. I must decide that this support has been working on my behalf even when I wasn't working it.

I must use meanings, identities, ideals, beliefs, and any other perceived understandings as creative tools—to be disposed of as soon as they're no longer useful or efficacious. Never as ultimate truths.

I am none of it, and all of it. I am Chandra but not Chandra. I am this body, but not this body. This manifest world is real and also not real. I am trapped in a material world, but I am free to make of it what I will.

Nothing is true, anything is permitted. I am free to make it up, and make it up I must if I am to do magic.

For me to be free from clinging to illusions of truth and at my most powerful, I must dwell in the infinite paradoxical ocean of energy betwixt and between, while remembering that I will die. I cannot take any of this with me. None of it ultimately means anything other than what I make it mean. And also, there is great mythical meaning inherent to the human story I was born into and will leave behind when I go. I am the storyteller of my life, while also in a never-ending story that began long before Chandra took her first breath.

All this, a long rambling way to say—

In the same way that I am now called to create my life, if I want writing to be part of the work I do, I must have the audacity to simply make it up and stop seeking to understand a truth that does not exist. I must let it be nonsensical, because it is. I must freely contradict myself, because my very existence is a wild contradiction.

It's time to root down deep into the soils of the earth and this body. To play with words and let them be wands. To be and say whatever I'm called to be and say in any given moment. To be wealthy, to work magic, to be free.