20 September 2013

Eighty-Nine


89


You are not the body, you have never been the body,
And, no matter how you may wish it, you will never be the body.
It is but another unique invention of consciousness
To play out its time-bound theater.
A dream, nothing more.

* * * *
Identity is born of the patterning of nature and nurture.
What you truly are is prior to all patterns, all designs,
All infatuations invented by any play of imagination.

* * * *
You are surrounded by others
Doing countless undertakings for which
You perhaps have neither capacity nor inclination.
Consciousness is like that.

* * * *
Flowers just flower, they need not ask how,
Or who or what or where or when or why.

* * * *
God may have sculpted you,
But the clayness is its own source,
That which is long before any beginning,
That which is long after any ending.
You are far more ancient,
And far more new,
Than any time
Can ever measure.

* * * *
Everything is written, everything is erased.

* * * *
Free will is just as much a prisoner of patterning
As the instinctual baseline of any other life form.

* * * *
Do with your given time whatever consciousness deigns.
It does not really matter how one’s life is spent
For it is naught but a brief dream,
No matter how real it at any given moment seems.