The whispers of sickness

My body is purging. My stomach churns and I have no desire to eat, only to return to my classic self-space -- in bed with the rain.

I only burn two candles tonight. Their flicker chases shadow creatures in erratic bounds over the iron roof.

I don't mind the sickness. It gives me the exuent, the opportunity to bind myself in blankets, cocooning body and mind. I recognise and salute the fact that my body can take control where the mind is too blind, taking me out of a situation and forcing me to process.

Given the daily bliss I exist in right now it is almost difficult to pinpoint what is being digested, or not, as the case appears to be.

I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. The angular constructs of my brain begin to fade.

I see a dark cave, and as I walk in I see only a short distance ahead of me. The light falls in soft grains.

The vision dissipates as my analytical mind sets in and tries to steer, placing fantasy objects in the cave and trying to validate the vision with constructed mystery.

A bang on the door brings me out of my dreaming and silence falls like petals around me.

The farm is perfect. I have a huge garden, a magical forest, perfect climate and breathtaking scenery. I have fulfilling things to do everyday and I am constantly inspired by those around me. I invent wildly and regularly in a fully-equipped kitchen and I retire by candlelight to a glass-fronted attic room. I wake up to a pink sky and ethereal lake through the expanse of glass. I have a sauna, musical instruments, library and pets. And wherever I am, cloud-hugged volcanoes loom over my vision.

But there is always something. One always feels the need for more.

Even when I have all my needs met, I find myself searching for something else - coffee, sugar, the long, open road. Family and long-lost friends. Dubstep and a dirty dancefloor. Real cheese and smoked salmon. My dress collection, hidden in the attic of my father's house.

Of course, the search comes from within. That Void inside, ever hungry, growing and contracting in muscular darkness. Most often I stuff the gap with food or exercise and it seems to lessen. Sometimes I pump it with weed and it feels satiated for a while, but the smoke lacks substances and dissipates quickly, leaving a monstrous hunger unable to be sated.

Life on the farm is as wholesome as it gets. I am more balanced than I have every been. The Void seems like a dark shadow of the past, most days.

But then, when I am least expecting it, that cold edge will touch my heart. A subtle knife point. Dark strands, webbing my core, tangling the shining silver of my breath, questioning. What is all this for?

Wherever I go, I will never find what it is I am searching for. Because I don't even know what that is. I don't even know if I'm searching any more. I suspect the search itself may be the goal.

I live here, on this magical farm, a place built for no purpose other than for people to exist. A place where anything can happen.

The farm is a place that does not exist except in imagination. It is made of our minds, of paper that cannot burn, where time stops and reality clicks along in star-sparkled clockwork. I am part of the product of an elusive man, a flute-playing yogi from China turned shaman in Peru and magician in Guatemala, who bought some land a year ago and magicked a whole world into being. It has literally exploded into life from the seed of his dream.

From here, daily worries, the horror of current affairs and the mediocre complexities of existence in the twenty-first century are the things of another life. This shiny reality seems to be all there is.

The only truths that can breed in this place are those bred in dreams. Everything else fades away, until we realise our Selves are out, again, searching for more, and we understand we need to pursue our integration with reality with more determination.

Even in paradise, one needs constant vigilance to stay true to oneself. I know it makes me happy to start my day with meditation and yoga, to steer away from sugar and smoke and to work a long, hard day. So why when in a routine do I seek disruption? As a Covent Garden fortune teller once cried to me; we are our own worst enemies.

My life is there on a plate. I have placed within it only good, pure things. But just because it is there, doesn't mean I automatically connect, and certainly doesn't mean I am present and fulfilled in every moment.

And at least I know I am in-tune enough to recognise when I need to renegotiate. Here in my glowing bedroom I step back, examine, and re-enter. Self esteem is directly linked to self-discipline. And self-discipline relies on a non-attachment to passing things, to Void-Fillers.

My insides feel less empty the more my thoughts unravel. Instead of sweeping over this darkness, I stare straight at it. Colours soak the edges of my view.  For at its depths I find only quietness. And in quietness, truths pierce.