18 July 2015

Four Hundred and Seventy-Nine

479


What would it have been like to only know a tiny slice of this garden world?
To have lived among a small group in a desert, an island, a forest, a valley, a prairie, a mountain.
Communicating orally using a unique language spawned by the given geography.
Scratching out an arduous existence with nascent tools and weapons.
Wearing simple attire, living in caves or modest shelters.
Hunting, fishing, gathering, harvesting;
Consuming whatever the world about you offered.
Gazing up at the boundless unknown in wonder, perhaps in dread.
Weaving stories; establishing traditions, rituals, customs; creating myths, legends, gods.
The prehistoric etchings of what we vainly call the modern, civilized world,
All in the same eternal moment it has always been, will ever be.

* * * *
We spend so much of our existence spouting over and over and over:
I am this … I am that … I am not this … I am not that … I am … I am … I am …
When in truth it has all along been the indivisible quantum nothingness
Playing a timeless game of hide-and-seek with its Self.

* * * *
We are all that which  is of the same origin, the same creation.
But relatively few at any given time seem to be conscious of it.
And even if we all were, would the world be all that different?

* * * *
You are the gap in the sparkplug,
The center around which the wheel turns,
The space around which the clay vessel wraps itself,
The ocean within which currents flow, upon which waves crash.

* * * *
There are no experts, there is no mastery,
Once you realize we are all just beginners here,
Prisoners of our own device, programmed to receive,
Some with minds jam-packed with more insights than others.
All are ultimately of the same essence, just filled with different notions.
You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave.

* * * *
How did we evolve into playing it out in such discordant fashion?
What is this monkey-mind need to believe in anything?
What is this insatiable craving for power, for fame, for fortune?
Here we are somewhere near or past the summit of our brief history of time,
And where can it possibly go but into some dystopian nightmare on a sure road to extinction?