02 June 2014

One Hundred and Seventy-Five


Every existence is a unique seed born of the same essence, the same mystery.
All are mortal portals through which awareness witnesses
The enigma of its eternal nature.

* * * *
The belief in one idol or another is certainly the easier row to hoe,
But for those whose fate it is to discern the truth,
There is no other course
But to delve deeply, remorselessly within.

* * * *
There is neither a superior nor an inferior equal.
You may not be this vat of flesh and bones,
But it is often indeed a great distraction
To which death is ultimate remedy.

* * * *
In the world and not of it.
Sometimes, sometime not.

* * * *
Nothing more, nothing less.

* * * *
Sometimes even the village idiot
Perceives things much more clearly
Than those who caste themselves elite.

* * * *
It is never easy being pulled off the stage
By the cloaked Reaper-dude with the scythe.

* * * *
Lend heart, money and things to friends and family
If you hanker to unconditionally, passionately experience
The greatest sense of unfathomable betrayal and inner struggle.

* * * *
All imagination is illusion, samsara, the play of the quantum ether,
Earth … water … air … fire … in all its countless forms,
All its theaters of consciousness … across all time, across all space,
In how ever many dimensions this inexplicable mystery has deigned to create.