26 December 2014

Four Hundred and Fifty-Two


Those who have thought so many thoughts, examined existence in so many ways,
Are no nearer to the quantum beingness than any peasant ploughing the fields of gold,
Or any worker bee quietly living out their fleeting existence in one urban hive or another.
Perhaps more aware of it, but no more in control of it than any man in the moon.

* * * *
The mind is the immeasurable playground of quantum imagination.
All history, all science, all art, all vocation, all trivia, all anything,
Is but a perpetual dance in a matrix too vast to fathom any edge.

* * * *
What is consciousness but a dreamy cloud of imagination,
Of dualistic notions inspired by the sensory creation.
One may clearly distinguish reality though it,
But the dream in itself is not the truth.

* * * *
What would it be like to be so present
As to experience fully every now
Any given life has to offer?

* * * *
To be born is to die,
With some wandering
Through a dream between.
That is the way it is.

* * * *
Who is this I?
What is me? What is mine?
Everything is yours. Nothing is yours.

* * * *
To be as passive as the lotus,
Well, not easy, my friend, not easy.
Especially when you are bearing the wounds
From so many battles with the windmills of your mind.

* * * *
All these traditions,
All these geographic assumptions,
Vainly vying for supremacy in a world of dreams,
Where all patterns small to great orbit in a vast sea of relativity.