01 August 2014

Two Hundred and Seventy

270


What difference could it possibly make
What others might think of you or anything else,
When it is really all you anyway, utterly, indivisibly alone.
When it is all nothing more than imagination inspired by the senses.
Pure, unadulterated, insatiable fabrication from the get-go.

* * * *
Eden, such a wondrous, magical gift, a garden extraordinaire.
Yet, given everything, the monkey-minds still wanted more.

* * * *
To really not care about anything, even existence itself,
How far, how deep, how alone, will you dare journey?

* * * *
It is by the light of awareness within that all is seen.

* * * *
What is the universe but the same quantum dust
Spinning ceaseless patterns of every magnitude.

* * * *
Nothing is long once you have seen the short of it.
Nothing is short once you have seen the long of it.

* * * *
The road to contentment is an arduous, rocky journey,
Long and winding, full of every imaginable distraction.

* * * *
The ever-present, timeless nowness of this garden universe
Is ever right here, right now, ready to take you back into its fold,
Back into the ceaseless streaming of its ever-dreamy reality.

* * * *
To be imbued with certainty, to be without a smidgeon of doubt,
How is that even vaguely, remotely, figuratively, tenuously possible?

* * * *
The mind is a forest of words in which most wander bewildered.
To see the forest though the trees, the mountain upon which the forest stands,
The sky beneath which the forest rests, and the upwelling within all,
Is a daily challenge to which few rise, much less achieve.