Latest posts by Prashant Bajpai (see all)
- Unveiling the Synchronicity Singularity – Thank You Professors Wachowskis - June 23, 2016
- When the Levee Breaks – Before the 2016 Reality Reset - March 17, 2016
- How to Undo Intolerance By Detoxing Your Belief Systems - January 21, 2016
Dear Joe Rogan,
I know the idea of an almighty senile playground bully lazying up on milky white cloudy couches and pissing lightning bolts into our teacups never caught your fancy. I suppose there
were are far too many of them running this world already, and their version of the almighty looks just like the guy they see in the mirror every morning. I don’t know much about God, but I do know a lot about power and all the charades and consumer cuckolding it stirs up in the name of God.
I think of power as a movie reel that tricks the projector screen into believing it looks fabulous. No one knows who directed it, but we still love to get silly fighting over spiritual copyrights and stonewalled “welfare” policies.”
And so, like you once said, we are indeed a thin veneer of civilization settled on a boiling kettle of chaos today.
Holding onto fleeting kisses of power is simply not conducive to getting our shit together and produces nothing more than self-indulgent hurricanes of egoistic flatulence. What have I become?Why do I feel numb? Will I ever get an appointment with respite or will I stay forever chained to my mistress Spite?
It’s not wrong to assume I’m just another neckbeard. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming growing up. My testosterone had mysterious priorities as evident by the lightweight moustache with a complimentary serving of a scorched goatee.
I got used to being a visionless sight standing naked in the sightless oblivion. The shame of nakedness of my essence disappeared in the reassuring blanket of anonymity.
Let’s be honest, pop culture is a schedule-I stagnation stimulant. We have nothing to learn from it and everything to lose to it.
So naturally, being pissed off than being pissed on turned into a full-time job and mainstream media mental masturbation became a dirty indulgence.
Although my monkey brain is still plugged in to the matrix, the reception on my propaganda programming has been getting a little foggy recently. I can read myself loud and clear without getting into an attention span showdown with a goldfish. And I’m more amused than pissed off at seeing how desperately the programmers want my fears to go nuclear.
Even though I’m told I don’t have enough gold and should probably fold before letting my love unfold, I knew there was no such thing as ‘too old for this shit’ in a universe so young and full of possibilities.
I knew I could dive as deep as I wanted in the ocean of consciousness because I wanted to be nothing more and nothing less than a message in a bottle – a message surfing the dreamwave lust of an Incan priest masturbating to summer solstice selfies. A message from a random kid halfway across the world who wants to thank you for being a guiding force in my spiritual awakening.
You helped me trash the apathetic basket of stereotypes that weighed me down and let go of belief systems without giving up on the idea of compassionate individuality.
One fine day, this benchwarmer had his own Berlin Wall fall moment within the confines of his brain. I finally learned to play Tetris on God mode by shattering the corrosive blocks of toxic expectations and ego constructs cluttering my mindspace.
All I had to do was embrace the soulful singularity throbbing within me and let my inner sensei counter the roundhouse kicks life threw at me.
I began to see that my 2 cents is the only real investment I have in my life, and tuning into the flow of my reality to surf the waves of change is a lot better than tipping someone to piggyback on their perspective. My experiences are what define my cosmic reality matrix and the greatest dedication to the moment was to become the moment incarnate. And the same goes for the other seven billion roommates trying to deal with self-limiting perceptions caught in the cobwebs of their moldy minds.
As an introvert stalking my true nature on digital wastelands, I never felt more liberated being a silent partaker of late night podcasts with unrepentant jest and diving deep into the breath of Brahma that makes this holographic skin crawl. I didn’t have to resign myself to the concept of a life of limited possibility being a doorway to my creative limitlessness.
With gallons of inspiration sourced from sages and intellectual stallions like Wim Hof, Graham Hancock, Duncan Trussell, and Randall Carlson, the Joe Rogan experience helped me row my sorrows gently into the good night and prepare for the beautiful awakening that woke me up to myself. But the reason I call you my Professor is because you taught me something they don’t bother teaching anymore – yearning to learn and give enough of a damn to discern the truth without letting preconceptions prostitute my judgment.
This time’s the charm, Mr. Rogan. This time I’m strapped in for turbulence with a smile on my face because the universe is ready to drop deez nuts – perhaps on top of a certain Clinton, figuratively speaking. PC triggers will keep getting triggered and intolerance will trick you by wearing the mask of pragmatism; but it’s the earnestness in examination and friendliness that will keep the decorum of discourse and creative virginity of our conversations intact.
Maybe it’s the electromagnetic streams piercing through the womb of our collective consciousness and slicing the sleaze from society and seeking interdimensional symmetry on our behalf. Maybe we’re going backpacking along with our brothers and sisters through a new phase of our evolution. Maybe the monkey brain is not alone. Maybe the summation of our energies as individuals and as a collective is hidden in the vibration of our creation. Maybe we are messiahs and gods rolled into one.
Like the Hopis always said, “we are the ones we have been waiting for.” Thank you for helping me gain confidence in the comfort of my own company and surf the highs and lows of my multidisciplinary passions without taking myself too seriously. Sometimes we’re investing one exhale too much into our ego balloons and puffing our chests for being a genetic jackhammer. Sometimes we’re running short of reasons to inhale because all the prophecies of progress that your heart built into your dreams are branded as heresy. All we can do is inhale, exhale, and smile until we walk our last mile.
The greatest dedication we can give to a moment is to swim with its natural flow and the greatest service we can do for the universe is to let it work its magic through us.
The effortless breathes in the timeless, in the now; not in the rigidity of the past or the flaccidity of a future always out of focus. The ones who sync their rhythm with the cartesian currents of this mutable hard drive we occupy are the ones whose laughs will echo eternally.