11 October 2014

Three Hundred and Sixty-Four

364


Where is this vain, noble, notorious “I” we so readily assume real?
Is it the ever-changing body, the ever-changing identity?
Is it the rambling compendium of perceptions?
Can it even be the timeless awareness
Common to all things living?
How can there truly be
“Me, myself and I”
In that infinity which is prior
To all forms fashioned of light and sound?
That which is ageless, formless, indivisible, sovereign, absolute.
That which has never even once suffered mortal birth,
Much less the pangs of imagined death.

* * * *
Every passing moment so fleeting, like an ever-burning fuse.
Every point of nowness gone as swiftly as it arrived.
Everything entirely a figment of imagination,
Merely a dream of the senses,
A theater of illusion.

* * * *
Every bubble of existence one day bursts.
Your world, your universe, will end
When you close your eyes
For the final time.

* * * *
You are nothing, you are everything.
Hard to comprehend, but it is that simple.

* * * *
In all its pricelessness,
The irony and paradox of Truth
Is how little profit it offers those who mine it.

* * * *
Throughout your life,
You have cared about this or that
For lengthy, moderate, or brief slices of time.
And yet, sooner or later, care’s capricious nature inevitably,
For whatever reason, draws to a close.
So, the question becomes:
Why do you care about anything?