There’s a Sufi metaphor about identification. Misery doesn’t come to us, we unconsciously seek it out and hold on to it, like flinging our arms around a pillar. As we squeeze tighter we yell, “Oh, if I only could be rid of this misery and pain!”
This misunderstanding is our choice. As American mystic Adi Da Samraj once remarked, we do misery, we do expectation. Hell is not a place. We do it. We do predictability. We make prophecy work because we are so damned predictable. Caught in the cycles of time and unconsciousness, we have repeated again and again the behaviors that make it easy for the seers to prophesy us unto doomsday.
This is why the emergence of the new breed, Homo novus — the true strangers among us, is viewed with suspicion and fear. The priests or the politicians cannot control these people. They do not pray for happiness, they are happiness. In the midst of a suicidal world, their way of life exposes the death wish society must encounter and transcend if it is to survive.