25 July 2015

Four Hundred and Ninety-Two


How would it be possible that you are not ultimately the same me as me, and me the same you as you,
The same he as he, the same she as she, the same we as we, the same it as it, the same all as all?
Identification with the body is the pretense, the façade, the charade, of consciousness.
At the source, how can it be anything but same all in one, the same one in all.

* * * *
Have you really ever thought, said, or done anything all that different
Than anything thought, said, or done countless dreamtimes before and since?
Perhaps, but likely ever so rarely, and really naught but minor tweaks
In the eternally evolving patterning spun of quantum stardust
In the puddles and jungles of the unfolding long ago.

* * * *
What is the smallest small, what is the largest large,
And what are you if not the awareness, the nothingness,
The indivisibility that weaves within and without all.

* * * *
How can there be happy endings
When there is no conclusion to anything?
Perhaps happy process, but beginning and endings
Are but the punctuation points of consciousness
Caught in the filament of unfounded notion.

* * * *
How interesting it would be to know the stories
Of all the things you have lost, sold, or given away.
To know whether they are still being used and cherished,
Buried in some landfill, or a part of some collector’s potpourri.

* * * *
Human existence as it is known
Is about the accumulation of imaginary conception.
To release the mind that attains is to relinquish all to the eternal nowness,
The timelessness that is as near to the one and only ultimate reality
As awareness through consciousness is capable of perceiving.
It is to discern that which is prior to all form,
That mystery you truly are.

* * * *
You may believe all this the intentional working of some supreme-on-high deity,
But even if that is true, it must certainly be subject to the same force underwriting all.
Subject to the same evolutionary process, the same pool in which all attributes ebb and flow.