One of the things about ecstasy is that it’s so decisive, so conclusive. Our life as a victim is over. No question about it. Done, just like that.
How much is enough? The total and absolute satisfaction I feel in ecstasy is enough. It’s enough to have me smarten up in every respect. It’s enough to have me sit up and pay attention. It’s enough to inspire me to act where nothing else might.
And it has absolutely nothing to do with anything out there. It’s entirely an inside job.
I may never make it to Kovalam Beach in India again. I may never have another coffee milkshake like I had at the bar of the Fontainebleu Hotel at age eight; it was a big deal. I may never drive another TR-4 or satisfy any other lingering desire.
And yet I am unequivocably satisfied and complete when in ecstacy.
“When in ecstasy….” The experience is steadily receding. And with it goes my memory of what happened. I’d probably have to consult the written record myself now.
I’m not holding onto it. I know that doesn’t work.
I’m also not holding onto any claim to knowledge as a result of it save that which arises in the moment.
Ecstasy may have closed the file on my life as a “case,” but it didn’t restore my memory.
Coming back from one of these experiences is usually so hard. There can be physical wear and tear but more burdensome is the longing for the lost state.
And then of course there’s the raising of the emotional floor and the sense of knowing what’s coming down the pike, that more than compensate.
And this in from Len:
Was it due to the Lion’s Gate?