23 August 2014

Three Hundred and Three


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.