30 October 2009

Chapter 181 - The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)

CLXXXI

Philosophy that doesn’t have its meaning
Deeply rooted into the day-to-day
Is all but worthless.

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Born to die, forever.

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Infinity’s eye gazes from every witness.

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Know evil, choose goodness.

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When you ask, “What’s the point?”
Are you meaning mine or yours,
Or hers or his, ours or theirs
Or just, what’s the point?

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We are all Buddha,
Neither one nor the other.

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It is far simpler than anyone can ever make it.

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Zen what?

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The meditation is in the moment.

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Ambition is for those who want a life filled with bother.

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If you want to know the future, go to Wal-Mart.

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Philosophers are a useless species to the world at large.

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We are all food for one dream or another.

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To rationalize this mystery, peoples across the world
Create analogical tools from their frame reference.
Pre-technological times formed natural metaphors.
The agents of this time look to creations of the mind.

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Civilize or civil lies?

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Yesterday is gone,
Tomorrow is yet to come
And nowness streams like sand
Through the hourglass of consciousness.

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Is now ever good enough
For a mind full of time?

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How incredible to be dealt a tough hand,
And still finish out one’s life a winner.

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Why should you, how can you
Ever justify the life you dream to any other?
It is yours and yours alone to witness as only you will.

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Any game, any collusion
Depends upon the players
To abide by the agreements
Dealt of relative circumstance.

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Is the story of Atlas any different than your own?
Who does not hold up their version of the world
Every moment of their imagined existence?

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What is the body but a filtrating receiving unit?

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The reverie of eternity is played out
In the mind bubbled of its own time.

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Any given frame of reference is expanded with every experience.
To extrapolate into every frame of reference imaginable
Takes one into the realm of the indivisible.

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Why would anyone bring a child into a world
With which they have no real relationship?

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Ironic how those who breed nonchalantly
Accuse those who do not of selfishness.

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Does humanity have the capacity
To survive the world it is creating?

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We are so often judged by our acts,
But it is the clinging to their continuation
Which exacerbates the havoc and confusion.

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When the Monopoly game ends,
As all, by definition, eventually must,
Who will be around to start another one?

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Blow up ten thousand balloons,
And they will ever be filled with the same essence.
No matter the universe, what manifestation can ever be any different?

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There are many who choose to suffer in this world.
Are you one of them?

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The passions carry you away from your Self.

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With a flip in attitude the glass turns
From half-empty to half-full, or visa-versa.
How the mind sees its world involves a choice.
Few understand the power they wield.

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What do you truly, desperately, passionately need
From this world or any other?

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How many times in your life
Have you been mesmerized, as was Narcissus,
By the mask and costume you can never witness as others do?
What would it be like to never see another reflection,
Photograph or drawing of your face again?

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Where would you be if you were not here now?

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Slowly the mountain dissolves into the sea.

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How many are interested in their lives?
How many only pretend?

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Put aside that craving to be noticed,
As well at that same passion to notice.

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Is there any greater challenge in this world than contentment?

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What happens to the losers of the Monopoly game?

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Imagine telling all children that they are godness
Born into manifest creation, as uniquely similar as snowflakes.
That they may journey the spectrum from demon to angel
Until the dream entertains them no longer.
And when that moment comes, return to the source,
That immortal beingness from which no further birth is required.

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You have taught the scribe well.
His adventure nears its beginning.

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Your are the unknown
Imagining a knowingness
Entirely of your own making.

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Consciousness may be fun,
But the stillness is one.

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Transcend time.

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Attempts by mystics and seers to change this changing world
Are as vain as anything else the human mind can conceive.

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Mother Nature does not long tolerate mediocrity.

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You have yet to meet any,
Even the most evil force imaginable,
Who is not of the same oneness.

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Who is not enthralled with their own dream,
No matter how senseless, mundane or pathetic?

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Is any history really more than a fairy tale?

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We too often choose leaders
Whose greatest insight
Is into our greedy self-interests,
And the political expediency necessary
To climb the imaginary rungs to wealth and glory.

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What a wonderfully outrageous thought.

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That to which absent minds cling.

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What a mad calling to write so much foolishness.
The ocean waves laugh at the stream’s babble.

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Your pretending to exist
Must inevitably come to grips
With the realization that you cannot.

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No collusion speaks for truth,
Nor does truth need a voice.

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It does not have to happen overnight for it to happen.

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Just where do you think god is
If not within you and everything else?

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The message is quite simple.
We are all that which is godness.
Whether you see it or not,
How you choose to manifest your dream
Is the reckoning to which no other can be held accountable.

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Neither your dream nor my dream;
Just a dream dreaming itself real.

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Calling anything a waste of time
Assumes there’s time to waste.

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See yourself within the contextual relativity
Of every life ever lived, every form ever witnessed.
Infinity courses through your veins.

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So much euphemistic doublespeak.

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Serendipity is a wanderer’s art form.

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A lie is the gap between word and deed.

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Retire while still young
So that you can enjoy
Both work and play.

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If you can’t laugh and giggle,
What’s the point of existing?

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Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who’s the vainest of them all?

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Peace can never be achieved
By minds caught in the vise of time.

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Suicide is the only way to choose
When and how you will die.

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The end of passion is a dying sages call eternal life.

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It is the insatiable yearning for union
That unfolds the journey of awakening.

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Even if another spent an entire life alongside you,
They would never see the universe you envision.
We are all very much alone in our bubbles of time.

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All is of the oneness.
How each moment is perceived
Is the heaven or hell of creation’s chronicle.

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The body is but a temporary cloak of imagination.

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Awareness is far too graceful to by bound by time.
Only consciousness is burdened by its own designs.

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You are the remedy to suffering.

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If you wish to understand anyone,
Examine their upbringing, family,
Friends, geography and mythos.
Walk a mile or so in their shoes.

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How challenging to not submit to excess.
What discipline to wander the middle way.

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Is it really worth winning at the expense of another?

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The scribe is but a pawn in this theater of consciousness.
These writings should never be taken as dogma.
They are but reflections of a vision.
Find your own way.

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All your ferocity, all your love
Is a reflection of the spectrum of all origins.
It is not an easy task to discern a resolution to the passions
The mind born of space and time musters into reality.

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Does any prophet or mystic ever easily submit to godness?
Is that resistance what it takes to sharpen the inner vision?

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Lord, how does anyone abide this world?
The greatest challenge is to discern the union
With the source which neither cares about nor feels
The insufferable torments of time’s too often bitter passage.

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Oh, to have never raised a pen to this unfathomable task.
So many saunters along beaches and mountain trails missed,
So many lips left unkissed, so many bottles of wines left undrunk,
For what purpose time holds forth, alas, this scribe shall never know.

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Such an unjust world in which to dance carefree.

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Fame, fortune and power are like picking your nose.
After awhile, they tend to get somewhat irritating.

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So many things to want.
How arduous to transcend them all.
How free do you desire to be?

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Awareness weaves through time untouched.

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You willingly make time
For that which you desire,
And withstand or ignore the rest.

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You need not know everything
To extrapolate the commonality.

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Are these writings any more or less vain
Than anything else in this mortal dreamtime.

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About many things you may be wrong,
But about one you are not.

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So it goes, baby, so it goes.

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Into the darkness you again spread your wings,
The journey’s end only just beginning.

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What adventures may come
For which we are ready as not.

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What does it mean to have fun, anyway?

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To which tomorrow were you referring?

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What’s interesting here
Is that you believe you have any say at all
In the choices I make.

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Entertain pain at your own risk.

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For memory’s sake, we do so many things better forgotten.

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It’s your illusion to dream through as you will.

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Awash in personalities,
The game is eternally afoot.

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History has the advantage
In that children will generally believe
Whatever they are told.

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Simple words for a complex time.

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There is no order but what the mind gives it.


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The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)
© Michael J. Holshouser 2009
World Rights Reserved