The mystic trapped in this dungeon of dung cannot even attempt to transform defecation into deification, without having to recognize the pitiful hopelessness of any form of anal alchemy that tries to turn a turd to gold. The very effort to do so concedes the vileness of consciousness, the all too maculate conception of which contrives to derail any creative push toward purity into a massive destabilization, a schroedingerian superposition of shit and shekels. The shock of peristaltic oscillation between the subtle ideal subject and the sludge of the defiled object terrifies the ego consciousness into submission to the social/superegoic Other's expensively perfumed smile. In this sense, every ego is an anal mystic, and its only genuine jouissance is that of smearing its merde on the walls of the world. There is nothing quite like dropping bombs and leaking nuclear radiation to fulfill the fantasies of the collective anal expulsive ego dream of returning tit-for-tat to the leaky gut of God, with the gift of the ultimate shit that stinks forever, destroying the coprophilic creation that never should have been. That is the way things are in this kingdom of death that the world of life has now become.
The only way out of the excretory logic of this delusion that contaminates all consciousness is the royal flush of the advaya toilet throne, authentically releasing all residue of resistance to the Inconceivable. Only from the perspective of the destitution of all perspective, the silent satori smile of the Buddha's disemboweling deliverance from a world that never was, a dream that no one ever dreamed, a delirium that no psychotic subject ever suffered, an unreal universe that no God ever expelled into the void—can the purity of love attain its truth.
Birth is only inverse suicide, the moebius strip show of the death drive, so long as love lies lost and languishing in language. Forever unborn to the unbearable agony of being, the silent unsuffering Self that is No-Self bereaves all bardos of their minus-one, who thus awakens from the weight of witnessing. There is no one left even to adopt the mask of madness. And even though there can be no final word, there is for the liberated the ultimate affirmation of Emptiness in every syllable of story, every mantra of no-me, the om resounds in every umwelt. The act of taking flight from the nest of zombiehood, undwelling as a nomad in every crumbling niche of narrative, igniting the negation of each neverland, precipitates the secret seed of knowledge from which shall sprout once more a tree of the transfinity of our eternal life. The quantum wave de-collapses timelessly to reveal a tsunami of unbound astonishment.