28 August 2014

Three Hundred and Fourteen


Who can say who, what, when, where, why or how
The seeds of doubt are planted, take root, and grow to fruition.
It, as all things, is ever the same mystery from all beginnings to all endings.

* * * *
An unending irony that all the things that make life pleasurable
Will without remorse send you back to oblivion you if you allow it.
Existence requires more discipline, not less, as you grow older.

* * * *
The innocence of childhood was indeed a bliss of its own,
But, alas, we must all sooner than later grow up,
And make our way in the given world.
Play it out the best we can.

* * * *
Continually processing, grokking your little dream.
Why, when you could be nirvana now.
It is right here, right now,
As it has always been, will ever be.

* * * *
Be as indivisibly indifferent as all the stars
That has taken to create this imaginary dream.

* * * *
Existence is the unknown cloaked in known,
Which we all must each in our own way endure.

* * * *
When the finite merges with the infinite,
When the drop is no longer distinct from the ocean,
Where can any seam between observer and observed reside?

* * * *
Yet another day in the examined life, the torrential spew of consciousness
Playing its tiringly silly, often pathetic, unendingly absurd, song of godness.

* * * *
To return to the upwelling, to Para Brahman, may or may not be your calling.
There is no predicting who will comprehend the source of awareness.
Nor is it really all that important, for the mystery is in all things,
No matter how many are or are not chosen to awaken.