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Why does there
always need to be a point? A meaning? A
purpose? A value?
What is so
wrong with just living, just breathing, just being in the beingness?
* * * *
Some things you do for years, some for
months,
Some for days, some for hours, some for
minutes, some for moments,
And some you just scarcely even need to
imagine,
And that is more than enough.
Reality is for those who lack
imagination.
* * * *
When you were a two-legged
swinging from branch to branch,
The jungle was your
universe, and language at most
Just hand signals and inarticulate
grunts.
Is it really all that
different now?
* * * *
What's close? What's far? What’s here? What’s there?
Where is the dividing line between you and anything?
* * * *
The right
words in the right mind
“Open Sesame”
the portal to the treasure within,
Each in their
own matchless way.
* * * *
Is there anything human hands have ever created
That can reconstruct itself the way a forest can?
* * * *
You do not really exist
As more than a figment of
imagination.
Everything you know,
everything you think, everything you do
Is merely built upon the
smoky vapor of mind.
Nothing more, nothing less.
* * * *
How can it be anything more
than streaming sensation?
The eyes, the ears, the
nose, the tongue, the skin,
Are nothing more than nerve
endings channeling into the brain,
Which every moment imagines
a conditioned translation of what you call the universe.
A solitary dream of
consciousness, awareness playing its Self real,
Nothing more, nothing less,
nothing but.
