30 May 2014

One Hundred and Thirty-Eight


It is not through words that reality is discerned.
Concepts are but the winds of sound blowing this way and that,
The awareness you are, utterly still throughout.
For that which you truly are,
There is no name.

* * * *
Aloof or in a crowd, aloneness is a state of mind.

* * * *
What that tattoo, piercing, or implant
Is going to look like in twenty or so years
Is not a very pretty thought to those
Not lacking vivid imaginations.

* * * *
The expanses of imagination
Are but the ephemeral filament
Of the thunder perfect mind.

* * * *
Me, Myself and I,
It loses interest in all of us,
And we few in it.

* * * *
Heeding sound counsel
And parlaying aid to one’s advantage
Is not the nature of fools.

* * * *
What is consciousness
But the dynamic of imagination
Playing itself out in the ground of eternity.

* * * *
There is really no mine, no yours, no theirs.
There is only consciousness, pure and simple,
Playing out every character imagination inspires.

* * * *
Avoid the turbulence inspired by the worship of Mammon
If you might wish to live out a relatively tranquil existence.