02 June 2014

One Hundred and Seventy-One


Be it long or short, smooth or rutted, all philosophizing eventually circles back to you.
Ever the same mysterious awareness, ever unknown, without beginning, without ending.
You are it, it is you, and all your profound speculations mean absolutely diddly-squat.

* * * *
Stoicism is daily putting on the game face and keeping the whining to yourself.

* * * *
It is not the real, indivisible, sovereign, infinite you
Who experiences the agonies and ecstasies of mortal existence,
But the movement, the stream of consciousness
So attached to this or that.

* * * *
The genetic lottery can be a more than a little harsh.
Count yourself fortunate if you got a playable hand.

* * * *
You can bet you are all but done for
When even the most freshly-minted experience
Only seems like some sort of rehashed,
Déjà vu echo of a rerun.

* * * *
Why follow a Christ or Buddha
When you could be a Christ or Buddha?
That is surely the intention of any earnest teacher.

* * * *
A snake may shed its skin, but not its nature.

* * * *
There is most definitely an omnipotent,
Omnipresent, omniscient god,
If you wish to call it that.
A state both infinite and finite,
Of which you are a sparkle of awareness,
A witness to the mystery of your most infinite origin.

* * * *
This world is your birthing ground, this world is your burial ground.
From dust to dust, and dust given consciousness between,
The source is equal ground for all, eternal, absolute.