What lies at the core of worship?
Even the most devout atheist, in some form of another worships.
There exists, a compulsion in humanity, to latch oneself, an agent of transience, to The Fantastic, The Ephemeral, The Numinous. Whether it is to a God, or perhaps zealous adherence to secular scientific doctrine, maybe even The Artist who seeks to affix herself to eternity vis a vis her magnum opus, effectively becoming a saint of her craft.
In the simple work that we do…
In regards to the pursuits we engage in with ease, that feel as a natural extension of self expression; what springboards the individual towards mastery? For the hobbies we love, we enjoy them not simply for the sake of the act, but rather mastery of the act itself. I do not believe this is simply an outpouring of Western tradition, it seems worldwide people are not content to write a story, but rather write the best story they have the capacity to write. It seems a very human thing to triumph over and above oneself.
At times I have felt when I am writing my poetry that it is not so much me that is writing but rather I am having a higher metaphysical communion with a force or agent of which I am only capturing the bare minimum due to the poor capacity of my feeble mind. Forever relegated to snatch crumbs but never perceive the big picture.
But this isn’t true at all is it. The human brain is as of the moment of my writing the most complicated and sophisticated structure in the known universe. What am I really yearning for in my pursuits? As I live and draw breath and wake up with vague purpose, living through the banality of my day hazily and lazily until The Spark ignites in me during truly singular moments. Like when looking at a beautiful woman and being moved to a state of selfless expression. Or waiting vacantly for the maelstrom of ideation to take hold of my wanting consciousness. What moves me to strive? Above and beyond. It validates my existence in a way that is so existential I feel I could handle any great expanse of time or myriad obstacles The World would throw my way so long as I retain mere embers of The Spark.
For without my art I am lost…
A flame absent a wick on which to burn…
Even as I’m writing this something stirs within me…maybe a psychologist would have some designation for what it is I’m feeling, maybe what I’m saying is wholly insignificant, experienced by innumerable human souls before me since antiquity. But this feeling of being tethered to something greater as I pursue the highest capacity of this instance of my work, I believe lies at the heart of worship.
It is in these singular moments of silent, nigh psychic communion, perhaps with my subconscious or the metaphysical world beyond, that I feel lies the crux of worship. It is in these moments that I feel Death holds no sway over me and that although my flesh is bound to erode I am fundamentally impervious to destruction.
I am comforted.
I personally am not necessarily all that religious, I am also a staunch proponent for much secular science, but in moments like this I believe…In the ever twisting and stretching limbs of Space and Time, I am significant not because my work will be honored, but because I have honored my work.
We are all vehicles to the destination of immortality.