The will to be conscious in a crystal clear fashion even if the body is tired. To separate myself from the messiness of being human and the chaos of memories, and align completely with polished surfaces, bright colors, manic lucidity. To be awake even when every fiber of the being says to sleep. To let the organism knit and repair itself in sleep, but to have the consciousness realize complete alertness during this time period. To cease to have incomprehensible dreams–dreams must by utterly crisp and perfectly understandable. If it is I who am too messy for this world of clarity, then the will is to become clean and pure. If this world of clarity doesn’t exist, and the land of dreams and spiritual things insists on being rife with riddles and nonsensical metaphors, then I must invent a land of clarity to inhabit when I die.
Is this so wrong? Is this a will that tends toward the antichrist, or a will toward heavenly perfection? There are no straight lines in nature, but everywhere you see manmade things, you see straight lines. If we are children of God, then surely heaven is full of straight lines–unless, of course, this is merely our own wayward nature–a kind of rebelious insistence on making God be something God is not.
Alas, I am nowhere near being as crisp as I long to be. I am messy, paradoxical, full of amorphous shapes and dreams that don’t add up correctly when held to the light of math and reason. I seek the past when I am presented with too many future problems. I dream of a better future when the present becomes unbearable. I scream at myself to focus solely on the present after I spend a day drifting in and out of temporal zones that are clearly uninhabitable.
Mostly, I insist upon freedoms that are not afforded to me. The freedom to instantly be anyone, anywhere, anywhen on demand. The freedom to alternately be full of love and fear without any consequences. The freedom to never age, never die–or to age and die again repeatedly and to remember every bit of every life lived. The freedom to be immoral without punishment and to reap rewards where I didn’t sow a single seed.
I want the phrase “to be” to mean almost anything I will it to be. When I will myself to be whomever or whatever I wish to be, so it is that this is what I shall be. Of course, I know this is not for me, but the will to be a demigod never completely escapes me. Of course, any time my wish is actually granted, I immediately feel as if I am imprisoned for all eternity in this prison of being something particular from which I can’t ever find the key to spring me free.